


An Unspoken Balance

by missingheadache



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Character Death, Sexual Content, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 04:25:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 65,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6223777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missingheadache/pseuds/missingheadache
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Niall’s soulmate tattoo is on the inside of his wrist, made up of neat, curved lines that spread over the blue of his veins to remind him of what the blood inside of them is rushing for. He wants it gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from I'll Catch You by The Get Up Kids.
> 
> (Please remember that this is a work of fiction.)

_Niall’s soulmate tattoo is on the inside of his wrist, made up of neat, curved lines that spread over the blue of his veins to remind him of what the blood inside of them is rushing for. He wants it gone._

*

 _It will be like a fresh start_ , he said over the phone, finishing off a rushed conversation about their schedule over the upcoming week before Liam was due for his medical. _New city, new club, new opportunities. No weight around my wrist to drag me down._

Liam’s responding sigh still rings softly in his ears now that he’s getting out of his car, a bit lost on a street he’s only seen on google maps before as he scrapes the sole of his shoe against the pavement and pushes the door shut behind him. It had been an exhale made up of sadness more than anything, after all the discussions they’d had about the topic over the past few years.

 _There’s no physical weight to it, you know that_ , he’d said, just a minute ago, when Niall still sat in the safety of the Range Rover, a corner or two away from his destination. The sadness had been a touch of defeat, spurred by the knowledge that the weight was of the emotional kind in Niall’s mind, and that it had been dragging him down ever since the ink first appeared on his skin. _But whatever makes you happy, I guess._

It’s not that easy. The world has never seemed as black and white to him as it seems to appear to Liam, or to anyone else who’s got their soulmate wrapped up in the sheets of their bed at night, and the correlation between a soulmate and the happiness they bring seems far more twisted the more Niall thinks about it. The sharp scribble of a name upon his veins shouldn’t have the power to label his state of mind, and neither should the lack of it. All he’s really looking for as he sets off down the street is the opportunity to make his mind up on his own. To let it fuse with the first impressions his heart makes and not have a name dictate whether or not his instincts are worth anything.

The studio’s modestly placed in-between a café and an empty shop, facing the street through a giant glass window. Niall ends up walking right past it at first, pushing his fingers through his damp roots as he searches the street for a telling sign. Mostly, though, he’s so caught up in the assumption that the shop will be located in a basement that he doesn’t even spare the fancy-looking window a glance until he’s trotting his way back along the sidewalk, stopping at the sight of their display of intricate artwork and eyeing the logo that is pressed onto the glass.

It’s about fifty times fancier than he’d been expecting, and he can see a hint of embarrassment lingering upon his cheekbones when he focuses on his own reflection; burning gently beneath the warmth that the sun has pressed to his skin during his walk over here. He’s usually not one to assume, or believe in the typical stereotypes.

There’s shiny hardwood floor and a mess of art on the walls, all grabbing for his attention as soon as he’s taken a deep breath and stepped inside. It’s not as overwhelming as it should be, just intriguing with the way the colours dance before him, making it hard for him to focus on a particular shape in the running image that wraps along the walls. He exhales to soothe his nerves, tries to pick up on the song that’s flowing in from the adjoining room to the left – the one he’d seen through the window. It’s a Bob Dylan song, something he faintly remembers being played in his dad’s kitchen when he was younger, but he can’t find much comfort in the melody now. Can only take in the high counter in front of him and the lad that’s sat behind it, curled around a tattered book with a piece of silverware sticking out of his mouth.

The guy’s posture is terrible. His shoulders are full of tension, and he’s got a knee sticking up above the counter to indicate that his foot is propped up somewhere behind it, out of Niall’s sight. His hair is a soft brown, curling just below his ears to frame cheekbones and plump lips, and Niall can’t interpret the pressure in his own chest – can’t tell if he needs to breathe in or out. He somehow knows, though, that the air belongs to the lad in front of him. That he’ll have to steal it in order to get it, and that the faint buzz of a gun that trembles beneath the bassline of the music only serves to add a taste of danger to the price. Makes it feel like a stolen breath has the potential to blow his lungs to pieces if he holds it.

His lungs cave in when the guy looks up, eyes steadily aimed at Niall even as he blinks owlishly over them, taking his time to take Niall in. The lines of surprise that adorn his face make him look younger than Niall initially thought he were, curious in a way people rarely are of other people these days, though there’s a clear hint of hesitance when he lowers his book to the counter. _The Old Man and the Sea_ , Niall notes, now leant up against the side of a bowl, held in place by a thumb that keeps it from closing up.

“We’ve no more appointments today,” the lad says, spoon still clamped between his teeth to make the words sound muffled and strained. “You here for a consultation? ‘cause we have time set aside for that on Monday afternoons.”

Niall’s tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he ends up shaking his head in a vain attempt to clear his mind. “Removal? My soulmate tattoo – I want it gone.”

The guy’s expression shifts slightly, though Niall fails to label the emotion it’s showing, and that’s enough to bump his anxiety to an unreasonable level. The needles and the anticipation combined with the silent judgement from the guy before him is making his nerves thrum beneath his skin, turning the buzz from the other room into a sinister call for him to come on through and face his fears. He tries to be subtle as he wipes the sweat away from his forehead, gulping down air when the guy finally moves a bit in his seat.

“That’s me, then,” he hums. He pulls the spoon out, licking his lips as he puts it in the bowl. “When would you like to do it?”

His voice is deeper without obstacles to climb on its way out of his mouth, raspy, and rich of comfort. Niall lets it wash over his skin, pretends that it’s a layer of protection as he shuffles a few steps closer to the counter. He can’t hear Dylan’s voice anymore, too caught up in the way his blood rushes in his ears, and in the soft shade of green of the guy’s eyes.

“As soon as possible, really,” he admits. “Been waiting long enough.”

The guy looks at Niall, seemingly assessing him from head to toe before he finally settles with a shrug of indifference. He leans in over the bowl, eyebrows raised in estimation as he suggests, “Could do the first session now, if you want. Once I’ve finished this.”

“That’s,” Niall starts, rocking back on his heels to keep himself from surging forward with excitement. He doesn’t know whether it’s the soup or the book that the lad wants to finish, but he’s happy to wait for either. Just wants the process to start, to finally feel like he’s getting somewhere. “Yeah, that’d be brilliant.”

“Are you sure?” the guy hums. He’s straightening slightly on his stool, moving a hand to fit the spoon between his thumb and finger once more. “Can’t regret it when it’s done, mate.”

Niall nods, “I’m sure.”

“Alright, then.”

“What - it’s that simple, is it?” Niall blurts, regretting the words as he’s saying them, wondering why he’s questioning things when he should be grateful. He drags the palms of his hands over his thighs, sticking his fingers into his pockets to keep from picking nervously at his nails. He doesn’t want things to go to shit now. “You’re not going to ask me why I want to do this?”

He feels better when he gets a smile in response, a soft spread of a grin that cuts through him and settles the tension in his shoulders. There’s an ease about the guy, softening his edges, inviting Niall in now that the assessment is over and done with. He can’t help but feel like he’s in safe hands.

“We have a policy not to, to make sure that we don’t sway the decision,” the lad drawls, tilting his head slightly as he speaks as if he can sense that Niall is nervous. It’s probably written all over his face. “So, as long as you’re really sure.”

Niall nods again, clearing his throat, “I am.”

“Okay. Good,” the guy replies, still smiling softly. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and there’s a dimple teasing his left cheek, making his expression one of the most colourful Niall’s ever seen. It’s better than the walls, more enticing to look at with the way the subtlest of twitches can change his face entirely. “Just make yourself comfortable while you wait, yeah? Want a cuppa?”

He declines, fairly certain that it’d be impossible to swallow anything past the lump of fear in his throat, and sinks down on the sofa to his left, tucked into the corner where the sound of the music is fainter. Where his thoughts stir up to a deafening level again, cancelling the clink of the spoon every time it collides with the bowl.

There’s a handful of new emails for him to go through on his phone while he waits. A missed call from the office, and a message from Liam telling him that his check-up is about to begin – that things will go well for the both of them and that they’ll see each other later. It’s not as reassuring as Liam must have intended for it to sound, it just reminds Niall of how much there is at stake. How hard they’ve both worked to get Liam to this point in his career.

It’s easier to tune in to the comfort that still radiates off of the slouched man at the counter than to worry about how Liam is doing – easier to let his gaze wander along the contour of the guy’s body and press his thumb to the inside of his own wrist, willing the blood to adapt a gentle rush in his veins as his foot taps away the seconds against the floor.

 _The Old Man and the Sea_ is closed by slim fingers a few minutes later, pushed away along with the bowl under Niall’s curious gaze. By then he’s memorized the lines of the ship that is inked on the guy’s arm, eager to know what else is hidden in the mess of art that is scattered upon his skin.

“Ready?” he hears, almost impossibly melodic for a tone that is so hoarse. Impossibly soft for something so deep. There is a smile to accompany it when Niall looks up to face him, as bright as his eyes to show that he’s excited to get to work. “Haven’t changed your mind?”

Niall shakes his head, giving in to the mirroring smile that’s tugging at his lips as the guy slides off of his stool. Once he’s rounded the counter he’s all legs; slim, everlasting limbs wrapped up in black jeans with slivers of skin peeking out at the ripped knees. It steals Niall’s breath away, but it also reminds him of why he’s come here – why he wants to get rid of the tattoo. He’s sick of the way every spark of attraction he feels gets washed out by the guilt that burns along the lines that are etched upon his skin.

The hardwood floor stretches on into the adjoining room, bright with the daylight that’s streaming in from the window, and bigger than Niall had thought when he was stood on the outside, looking in. It’s so far from the shabby basement Niall has been imagining, so colourful and full of life that he doesn’t even find the buzzing noise from the gun intimidating anymore. It looks small in the artist’s hand, almost harmless where it’s held to a redhead’s chest, moving effortlessly over pale skin. The artist is humming along to the music as he works, swaying his head to whatever it is Dylan is singing about now, and Niall wonders if the art of etching ink onto someone’s skin shouldn’t demand more focus than that.

He’s less sceptic when the buzzing stops – when the man holding the gun looks up and aims a bright blue gaze right at him, free of judgement as it takes Niall in. There’s a friendly smile, followed by an easy call of, “Removal, huh? Looks like we’ve got another nonbeliever on our hands!”

Niall blinks at first, pressing a sweaty palm against the back of his neck and digging his fingers into his nape, urging himself to stay still, to calculate the look on the stranger’s face. It’s still friendly, all soft eyes and a twitching smile as their gazes remain locked across the room, and Niall supposes that he’s joking. It feels a lot like friendly banter.

“Oh, shut it, Louis,” the lad under the needle says, chuckling his way through his reprimand. He’s laid out on his back, shirtless, with a wide pattern of lines spanned across his chest, grinning up at the ceiling like there’s nothing in the world that can get to him. “Love’s tough, man, you can’t blame him.”

“Just ignore them,” the deep drawl calls out to him, then, soft as it lures him in. “I work with idiots. Should never have gone into business with ‘em.”

Niall glances back at him, smile already perched upon his lips as he shrugs. “It’s fine. I know it’s uncommon – for people to do this.”

 _One out of every fifty thousand_ , he’s read somewhere. The world is full of hopeful romantics that raise their judgmental eyebrows at people like him. He’s used to the comments.

“I guess you know the rest, too, then,” the guy says, gesturing for Niall to sit down in a chair near the window, pushed into the corner where the wall is painted with shades of green. Niall tries to focus on how it matches the lad’s eyes as he slides his bum back over the leather, ignoring the tremble to his nerves now that the situation suddenly feels so _real._ “You’ll need six sessions, pay for half of them today and the rest after the last one. Got to be eighteen or the treatment will be useless, so on, so on.”

He’s raising an eyebrow, fishing for a confirmation to assure that there’s no need to go into details, and gives Niall a blinding smile once he gets what he’s after. His teeth are too white, too perfect, enhancing the pink of his lips and making his words seem so soft when they pass by.

Niall licks his own lips, letting his eyes stray before he embarrasses himself. There’s a low neckline to trace with his wavering gaze, more tattoos peeking out on tanned skin that makes his mouth water, and a bitter taste of disappointment creeping up his throat at the sight of the lines that sit over the man’s left collarbone. He swallows hard before he mumbles, “Got it.”

He takes his sweater off, brushing his hands over the light blue of his shirt before he fingers the button open at his left sleeve and rolls it up a few times, exposing his only tattoo in a way he’s rarely done it in the past. Purposefully.

There’s the sound of a chair rolling across the floor, the sight of soft hair curling around a face that shifts from curiosity to amusement as the man tuts, head tilted to let him look at the tattoo from the right angle. “Gonna make me wipe my own name off your arm, are you?”

Niall assesses the amusement he’s faced with, noting the hint of disbelief that’s making the corner of the guy’s mouth twitch even as he’s rolling a few inches back again.

“Harry?” he hears himself mutter a couple of seconds later, though his Irish accent comes out so thick that he barely recognizes it, scrambling to remember how he sounded before Liam wore him out of it.

“ _A_ Harry,” the guy replies in a vague confirmation. He’s less anonymous, now, adding a name to the things Niall already has stocked in a folder in a corner of his mind. Brunet, tall, soft, fit, hoarse, _Harry_. “There are plenty of us out there.”

Niall scoffs.

“Don’t have to tell me about it, mate,” he manages to say, too, pressing the words out past the now established taste of disappointment that covers his tongue. He feels heavy, suddenly, sinking into the chair from the weight of the realization – the awareness of how close he was. How this was one last chance of finding _him_.

Only half of it added up, though, and he’s left alone, feeling small as he slides slightly over the worn leather, feeling his heart thump away with the knowledge that he once again is left alone, without the right person to add up to. A part of him wants to press a hand to Harry’s collarbone, cover it up and allow himself to pretend that they fit, just for a moment. More than that, though, he just wants to get this done so that he finally can move on.

“So you’ve been looking for him?”

“Not actively,” Niall shakes his head, eyes steadily aimed at Harry’s face to gauge his reactions. The genuine curiosity that is lined along his eyebrows is comforting, lacking judgement as he listens. “Definitely not. Keep turning my head every time I hear the name, though.”

“Think everyone do that,” Harry mutters through a half-smile, reaching for Niall’s wrist. His fingers are warm, palm soft where it presses to Niall’s skin, grounding him in the moment as he wipes disinfectant over the ink. “Ever removed a normal tattoo before?”

Niall watches Harry’s hands; the confident way they move over Niall’s flesh, the ease of which Harry’s thumb rubs circles into his skin. He only just manages to untuck a _no_ from the back of his mind, running on autopilot as he watches the pained expression on Harry’s face.

“Ever _gotten_ one, then?”

“Well – no,” Niall mumbles, finally averting his eyes from everything that is Harry, closing them briefly before he aims his embarrassment at his lap. “Bit afraid of needles if I’m honest.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Harry breathes out, halting his hands on Niall’s skin, blinking up slowly. He’s a soft display of concern, badly hidden uncertainty dancing along his smile as he adds, “It won’t be helpful at all if I say that this will hurt worse than one, then, will it?”

There’s no way of stopping the quiver, then – the tremble that rushes along his spine when Harry’s words register in his mind. He tenses up under Harry’s touch, wound up so tightly that his breaths tumble out of him in an irregular heap, voice strained in the middle of it. “Not even a little, mate.”

Harry leans back in his seat, retracting his hands and bringing the warmth with him. A few curls have fallen down across his forehead while he’s been leaning over Niall’s arm, making him look tousled and a bit frantic as his eyes flick over Niall’s face in search of a trace of panic.

“It’s fine, though,” Niall adds, before Harry stops this. Before he takes the shot at freedom away. “I _want_ to do this. I’m ready.”

Harry hums, suspicion dripping off of him as he inches his way in again. “If you’re sure.”

“I _am_ ,” Niall assures, grinning despite it all, hoping that he doesn’t overstep the mark as he adds, “Now stop asking me before I do it myself.”

The relief is a flood in his chest when Harry grins back, sending a wave of oxygen crashing into his lungs to kick him back into stability as he finally remembers how to breathe again. How to breathe despite Harry’s attention; gaze and touch pressed to Niall’s skin to make him feel marked with something other than ink. A shade of pink to colour him interested.

“I’m one out of four people in Britain that are certified to do this,” Harry tells him, smirking as he playfully snatches Niall’s wrist and brings it closer again. “You’re probably best off sticking with me and my nagging.”

Niall chuckles, rubbing his shoulder blades against the back of the chair to settle in. There’s less of a rush in his ears, now. More Dylan, and a melodic kind of chatter that washes just above it, flowing softly from the two men that are settled further into the room. Nothing about the atmosphere is hostile, and he feels like he’s in good hands, put at ease by soft skin and the gentle humming that spills over Harry’s lips as he moves about, getting everything ready.

His gaze slips back to the low neckline, though, straying to the exposed collarbone no matter how hard he tries to focus on what’s going on around him. There’s a bitter kind of curiosity curling in his stomach – a growing itch in his fingers now that he’s deprived them of the calm that would come with the action of fitting his palm over the curved lines of ink on Harry’s skin.

“Have you found him – Daniel?” he asks, barely above a whisper, blending his words with the music to the point where he could simply be mouthing the lyrics, had he known them. He blinks a couple of times, struck by what he just said – by the lines he just crossed. “ _Shit_. Sorry, that’s really personal. Forget that I asked.”

“It’s okay,” Harry hums, quick to soothe the sudden flare of anxiety that’s licking at the inside of Niall’s skin. It doesn’t take more than the slow drawl of his voice to ease the pressure in Niall’s lungs. Doesn’t require more than the slow spread of a wide smile across Harry’s face to remind Niall of how breathing works once again. His expression is soft as he tilts his head down, lined with fondness as his chin presses down against the top of the letters upon his collarbone. “I have. But I like to think that he was the one who found me.”

His happiness is the most evident thing Niall’s ever been faced with, almost tangible where it plays out in slow-motion before him. There’s a shine to the green of Harry’s eyes, a thrumming sense of pride radiating off of him, sharp as it cuts into Niall’s mind in the form of something he refuses to call jealousy.

It fades a bit the next time Harry leans in close again; blurs out as his eyes narrow in on the tool in Harry’s hand. It may not be a needle, but as he tenses up in his seat he can’t help but think that laser sounds ten times worse – that it’s sure to tear his flesh apart and leave a torn name in its wake.

“You’re… very fidgety,” Harry huffs, amusement clear in his voice as he adjust Niall’s arm on the rest, sliding it gently over the cellophane that’s wrapped over its surface. His hand remains against Niall’s open palm once it’s settled, his thumb a soft pressure against the middle of it to keep it from moving. “Take a deep breath, get it out of your system.”

Niall does as he’s told, closing his eyes as he tries to fill his exhales with anxiety before he refills his lungs. When he looks up again he finds the same concerned glint in Harry’s eye, unnervingly familiar as it’s aimed so steadily at him.

“Sorry,” he mutters, rolling his shoulders before he lets them drop. “It’s a work thing -- I’ve got a lot riding on something that is out of my control today. I reckon I’ll be better the next session.”

Harry hums under his breath, aiming his attention back at Niall’s wrist as he says, “I’m going to start now. Tell me if it hurts too much.”

“What,” Niall scoffs softly, twitching his fingers gently against Harry’s free hand, steered by anticipation. “Not going to ask me if I’m sure first?”

The burn of the laser against the ink is softened by Harry’s smile; small, yet overpowering as it steals Niall’s attention and delays the increasing pain. It’s not as bad as he thought it would be when it finally claws its ways along his nerves and alerts his mind, not worse than it’d been when he’d woken up from his knee surgery all those years ago, but it’s enough to make his fingers flex against Harry’s hand.

Harry’s patient with him, simply rubbing his thumb along the crease in Niall’s palm as he lets his gaze trace the movements of his other hand. His voice is even deeper, now, blending with the noises that bounce around the room. “What kind of work would that be – that’s bothering you so much?”

“I’m a sports agent,” Niall reveals through a shaky breath. It still feels weird to say it – to give himself the title with an air of feigned indifference after the hell he went through at uni to get to this point. To be by Liam’s side through the journey from the field near their childhood homes to the grass in Old Trafford. “My client’s going through his final medical as we speak, so it’s all riding on that. I should be there.”

Harry gives him a brief glance, consideration swimming under the furrow of his eyebrows as his grip around Niall’s hand tightens. “But you’re not.”

“But I’m not,” Niall confirms. “Wasn’t allowed to come. Liam said he’d go insane if he had to watch me pace up and down the hallways.”

“If it’s anything like the fidgeting I don’t blame him,” Harry teases, expression open with a blinding amusement that makes something in Niall’s stomach flutter.

He’s not felt warm since he got inside, since he shielded himself from the burning sun and rid himself of his sweater, but there’s a heat building along his spine, now, pressed so tightly against the back of the chair that he can imagine that it has a pulse of its own. A life to live in his cells, sizzling the skin to make the laser feel insignificant.

“You’re good at this,” he murmurs, not quite thinking. There’s little tension left in his body, little to support his neck, making his head dip back so that his throat is bared to the room, pale above the collar of his shirt. “Distracting me. Making me feel at ease.”

It’s the first time since he came in that Harry doesn’t seem entirely responsible for his own expression – breaking up in bits of pink as his smile turns sheepish. He doesn’t look up at Niall, doesn’t bless him with the lines of his face, but chooses to grin down at Niall’s abused skin when he mutters, “Was just making conversation, really. But I’m glad it’s helping.”

The session lasts less than an hour, and it’s spent trading work-related stories that make Niall’s stomach hurt with the effort he makes not to move too much when he laughs. Harry’s got an effortless air about him; something that lets the words roll easily off his lips and bind anecdotes together as if it’s all he’s ever done in life. His eyes rarely leave the lines on Niall’s wrist, but his attention is sharp, and his responses are witty. It makes the upcoming sessions seem less daunting.

He can tell that there’s a difference, too. He’s kept a close eye on the letters ever since they appeared on his skin when he was thirteen, and no matter how much he’s resented them lately they’ve never looked so dull before. Dark grey, as if the sting of them have worn off, framed by an irritated red to show that they’ve put up a fight – that they won’t come off easily. He never really expected that they would.

“I never got your name,” Harry says when they’re done, glancing over his shoulder as they trace their footsteps back out. His ankles brush up against each other when he walks, somehow making his legs seem even longer than they are; hard to navigate upon big feet. “I’ll need it for the book, for the next session.”

Niall slides up against the counter, wary of his wrist as he pushes both palms to the wooden surface. The bowl is still there, along with the book and a scattered pile of sketches that call for his attention.

“It’s Niall,” he replies, somewhat distracted as he thumbs the corner of the nearest paper, eyeing the lines of an owl in the top of the pile. “Niall Horan. Hey, these are gorgeous.”

“What?” Harry’s head snaps up, a bewildered look on his face during the brief moment their eyes meet. He blinks a few times, takes a moment to catch up before he says, “Yeah, uh. There’s no one better than Louis.”

Niall studies him for a moment; takes in the tense line of his jaw and the tired ones around his eyes, wondering about the pinched tone of his voice. It’s a mirroring image of what Niall usually looks like when he’s been reading without his glasses on, so he doesn’t comment on it. Thinks of the headaches he usually nurses and hopes that it’s not a common thing for Harry to deal with – that the frown is an unusual expression in the wide selection he seems to have.

“I’m gonna have to bring Liam around once we’re settled in around here,” he hums, pushing back a little, fishing his card out from his pocket once it’s time to pay. “He’s been talking about getting a new one.”

“You should,” Harry agrees softly. His expression softens, his eyes brightening a bit as he tilts his head and takes Niall in. “I’ll set you up with a new appointment next week, first. Thursday, same time. Call if you can’t make it, and be careful of your wrist until then. It will be a bit sore.”

Niall nods, ironically enough a bit reluctant to leave the place that terrified him less than an hour ago. He tugs at the neckline of his sweater, fitting it back under the collar of his shirt before he pats down along his torso, deeming himself decent enough to go back outside.

There’s no Dylan out there, just the same heat of the sun and a loose feeling in his chest as he checks his phone, setting off down the street to get back to work.

*

Liam signs the contract two days later, and Niall stands in a corner of the room, watching through red-rimmed eyes as camera flashes go off during the vital moment. It’s been months of meetings and gruelling phone calls between all parts involved. A mess of numbers and clauses to work around while the agency has been on his back, claiming to be supportive even though it’s been clear that they think that he’s too young for a deal like this. Too inexperienced to be involved in a transfer that has worldwide coverage by the press.

It’s worth it, in the end, when he sees Liam shaking his new manager’s hand in front of the photographer, eyes crinkling at the corners as a testament of his happiness. He’s been praised over and over during his years in West Brom – has been one of the biggest names in _The Championship_ ever since he earned himself a permanent name in the starting line – but Niall hasn’t been satisfied. He’s been too aware of the determination that thrums in Liam’s veins; too aware of the strength in Liam’s muscles and the drive in his feet. He’s seen it since they were a couple of twelve year olds running wild on sugar in the park by their school, and he sees it now, lurking in Liam’s eyes. There’s a longing to get even better, and an opportunity to succeed served on a golden platter that he won’t throw away.

He talks about it that same evening, fighting to keep the fatigue out of his voice as he recounts a polished version what the past few weeks have been like to his dad. He doesn’t talk about the long nights, or the doubt that has kept him so tense that his joints are hurting now that some of the pressure has been lifted off his shoulders. But he mentions the people he’s met, and the agreements he’s managed to reach with some of them. Describes what it’s like, standing in the middle of Old Trafford with the stands towering above you, knowing that this is where your best mate belongs, and finally acknowledging that you’ve helped him get here.

He reckons that his dad knows about the bad sides of his career, anyway. He’s the same man who taught Niall everything there was to know about the sport when he was a little kid – the one who never lost his patience when Niall wanted to learn about the offside rule or practice penalties well past his bedtime. There’s worry in his voice now that the roles are reversed; hidden badly in every question he asks even though he never questions his son’s health the way his wife would have done. The concern has been there ever since Niall packed his bags and left for uni, and it’s present in every yawn that slips into their conversation, telling Niall how hard he’s struggling to stay awake and prolong the moment.

It makes Niall smile into his hand every time he drags the palm of it across his face, his expression worn under the pads of his fingers. Makes him tug at his bottom lip, only to have it slip out of his grasp in an even wider grin every time his dad utters something that is so thick with pride that Niall aches with the need to hug him. He misses their small kitchen, and the grunts they’d use to communicate over breakfast every morning. Misses the familiar scents and the traits of their personalities that were embedded in the walls, comforting in a way his hotel room isn’t despite the four stars it’s been branded with.

He doesn’t see much of the fancy interior by the time they hang up. There’s only the one light on, casting its glow from the table beside the sofa he’s sat on, and the looming darkness does a good job of emphasising the strain in his voice when his parting words ebb out in a thick silence. He sighs to fill it, a sound that’s deep with the exhaustion that’s stacked all the way from his toes, yet hollow as it spills out over the coffee table, over a laptop that went into standby mode over an hour ago. Even with his father’s order to take care of himself fresh on his mind he decides to blink away the sting in his eyes and bring the computer back to life, fumbling his glasses back in place over the bridge of his nose, ready to go through another few emails before he heads to bed when there’s a knock on the door to stop him.

Liam’s there when he opens up, dressed down to sweats and a t-shirt after dinner, grinning tiredly as if it’s been a struggle to get back from the restaurant to his best mate. His expression is a piece of home, though. Something that soothes the dull ache that sparked to life at the sound of his dad’s voice. He gestures for Liam to come inside; mirrors that tired smile and pushes the sleeves of his dress shirt up to his elbows, feeling overdressed and ridiculous with the suspicion that he must have ruffled his hair, clothes _and_ expression ever since he slipped away from dinner.

“We just got back,” his friend informs, turning as he walks, backing into the room with his hands raised in the air, bottles held tightly in the gaps between his fingers. “Sophia stopped with my sisters in the hotel bar, and I think my parents fell asleep as soon as they got into their room.”

Niall shuts the door softly, shaking his head in the same fashion as he trails in. He feels less run down with Liam here. More settled as he adjusts to the sight of his friend in the dim light. “You should be down there with them – let them gush about you until your ears bleed.”

“I reckon they’ve already gushed more than enough for one night,” Liam chuckles, slightly embarrassed as he sets the beer on the table and sinks down on the couch. “And if there’s anyone I should be celebrating with, it’s you. Couldn’t have done this without you.”

“No, you definitely could have,” Niall protests. He slides his feet over the floor, gets to the table and takes a bottle to knock its cap off against the table, hoping that it won’t cause a dent in the wood. “And you _would_ have. I just… made it a bit easier, I hope. Took care of the paperwork so you could focus on the game.”

Liam shakes his head, an amused smile tugging at his lips to show that he’s tired of Niall’s comments by now. That he’s heard them enough times to find it funny how Niall still grasps on to them so desperately, hesitant to take credit for what he’s done. “You did a hell of a lot more than that, and you know it. You’re my best friend for a reason.”

“Yeah?” Niall snorts, resorting to banter when the emotion gets too thick in the room, too tired to trust himself with something so genuine now that his feelings are all over the place. “You won’t have ditched me for Wayne Rooney by the end of the week, then?”

“Don’t be daft,” Liam scoffs, conjuring a bottle opener from a pocket of his sweats and cracking it open without hesitation. He looks well-rested; is a product of healthy eating and excessive exercise, but even more so of a steady eight hours of sleep per night. Niall envies that, sometimes. Usually late at night when it’s been an hour or two since Liam last texted him back, when he knows that his friend has gone to sleep while he’s been up, worrying about an upcoming meeting.

It always makes him dig his thumb into the angry line across his knee, against the scar that runs over the knee cap. He made peace with his break up with sports years ago, but it still haunts him at times – that childhood dream of running up and down a sideline, shifting a ball from one foot to another and dribbling his way past defenders to cut in towards the goal. He could have been great on the right wing.

“You do need to ditch those, though,” he mutters, failing to keep the amusement out of his voice as he steps in closer. He nudges the bottom of his bottle against Liam’s thigh, folds his legs under himself and sinks down on the empty seat of the sofa. “Burn them. Never mention them again.”

“My sweats?” Liam questions, all cocked eyebrows and pursed lips as he looks down his own body. “Why?”

“ _Why?_ ” Niall repeats, incredulous enough that his voice sounds squeaky as he shifts to get a better look at his mate. “Because your new team is sponsored by _Adidas_ , not Nike. And because I’ve got a meeting with them tomorrow, to go over your individual contract.”

“Can’t believe this is happening,” Liam huffs out through a laugh, brushing the back of a finger along an eyebrow like he’s trying to wipe the disbelief from his face. There’s a tremor to his pupils – a restless kind of energy that shows how much he’s struggling to take everything in, even though none of it is physically in front of him. “I mean, it’s been a long time coming, really, but now that we’re finally here – it’s insane.”

Niall takes a swig from his bottle, relishing the bitter coat of his tongue once he’s swallowed it down. His shoulders are loosening up already, the sting in his eyes relentless as the exhaustion comes crashing back over him in waves of alcohol.

“I always knew you’d make it,” he hums, sliding his glasses off the bridge of his nose, putting them aside by the foot of the lamp. “You were never going to give up on your dream. I’m proud of you.”

Liam groans in response, embarrassed once again as he lets his head drop to the back of the couch. “Yeah, so you keep saying. Gonna make my head so big that I’ll float away before I’ve even had my first practice here.”

“Which is tomorrow morning, by the way. Nine sharp, breakfast at the grounds before that,” Niall chimes in, biting back a grin to barge right on while there’s still a bit of clarity left in his mind. “Then you have the interview that’s gonna go up on the club’s website – something for the supporters to get to know you better. I sent you the questions so you can prepare for it.”

Liam moans something unintelligible at him, finally showing a dent to his armour as he yawns into the palm of his hand. He chases it down with a mouthful of beer, and Niall shakes his head in silence, clearing his throat to add on, “Then there’s the flat viewing in the afternoon, too. Sophia and I will pick you up when you’re done making a name for yourself.”

“That’s not really an agent thing,” Liam remarks, tilting his head and furrowing his brows, all together displaying a look of concern as he fixes Niall with a stare. “A lot of what you do for me isn’t.”

“No,” Niall snorts, taking the concern and tucking it somewhere between his ribs, settled by the familiarity of the conversation. “It’s a best mate thing, funded by mutual care. You can’t live in a hotel forever.”

He chugs down a good part of his beer and puts the bottle on the table, clenching his hand around nothing once he leans back again. His fingertips are cold against the palm of his hand, cutting the rest of his body off until the chill is all he can focus on. If he’d had more energy he would have pushed his fingers past the neck of Liam’s shirt and chased a shriek out of him, but as it is it’s all he can do to sink back in his seat and hope that he won’t fall asleep in the middle of the conversation.

“Neither can you,” Liam tells him, wide-eyed and serious, somehow making it obvious that they’ve become grownups, now. That they’re depending on each other as they navigate through the maze of responsibilities. “Are you gonna crash with us for a while, like we talked about?”

Niall does a slow shake of his head, stopping once his nose is buried in the cushion and it hits him that he can’t feel his lips. That he can’t feel them moving around his words when he tries to explain, “Don’t think so. I talked to the bloke who’d lined up houses for you to look at, and he had a flat within my price range, working with the bonus from the transfer and all. Reckon I’ll fit in a viewing soon enough.”

“Oh, okay,” Liam hums, voice still thick with concern, presumably brought on by Niall’s crumpled state. He never was good at keeping his worry at bay, but he shouldn’t be so affected now, seeing as Niall’s thrown himself into everything he’s done headfirst ever since they first got to know each other. “That sounds good.”

“I think it will be,” Niall mumbles. There’s a tingle where his lips should be, now, teasing him. Telling him that he was nineteen and incredibly wasted the last time he was in this state; not twenty-three and exhausted. “It’s just a corner away from the place where I’m getting my tattoo removed. Seems like a decent area.”

Liam’s eyes soften at that, consideration taking a hold of his lips and pushing them into a pout as he leans forward over his own lap. He doesn’t have to speak to let Niall know what is on his mind; only has to glance down at Niall’s exposed wrist and furrow his eyebrows to share his thoughts, but he still opens his mouth. Still uses a low tone and says, “We haven’t had time to talk about that – the tattoo.”

“We’ve been talking about if for _years_ ,” Niall is quick to argue, determined to push forward before the care that is lining Liam’s face grabs a hold of him and makes him go through it all again. “I know that you don’t get it – that you’ve found your soulmate and that you’re happy with her. But this is what’s best for me. I can’t spend my life chasing someone I might never meet, it’s just not for me.”

He doesn’t let Liam’s puppy eyes get to him – has had enough years of practice to know that the sad look is more of a reflection of himself than anything else. That Liam thinks that this is a wound that goes deeper than any laser can reach. He doesn’t push the subject any further, though, but simply emphasizes the foundation of their friendship by accepting what he doesn’t quite understand, knowing that this is something Niall has to do.

“You know where I am, though, if you change your mind,” he says, fitting his hands to his knees and pushing himself up to his feet. He turns his expression away from Niall, goes over to put his empty bottle in the bin and ends up standing near the small entry to the room. “I know that things are hectic for the both of us right now, but I’m still here for you. Still support you in anything you do. Just – please don’t wear yourself out.”

Niall smiles at him. Pushes through the fog of numbness and exhaustion, making it genuine as he sends it across the room, warming up inside when it makes Liam’s features soften. “I won’t. The toughest part’s over now, anyway. It’s all on you from here.”

It startles a laugh out of Liam, soft as it rings out in the room and makes it seem a bit more familiar. A bit more like home, even as he starts to back out of it. “I better not mess it up, then.”

Niall lets the silence settle around him once Liam is gone; breathes it in and closes his eyes against it as he stretches his legs out along the couch. There’s a storm of information in his mind, a mess of the words he’s read and the figures he’ll have to keep track of in his everlasting string of meetings with sponsors, but above it all is a sense of pride. Something that’s been brought out by the conversations he’s had this evening, strong enough to mute the chaos and loosen his limbs. He doesn’t make it to bed. Doesn’t even make the effort to turn the lights off before he’s giving in to the exhaustion.

*

The following Thursday is grey, weighed down by clouds and edged with a sharp wind. Niall feels better as he nears the studio, though, loosening the knot of his tie with the knowledge that he won’t have to wear it for the rest of the day. That he only has to drop by the realtor’s office to sign the contract for his new flat before he can take the rest of the day off. Drink some tea and watch some telly, be as lazy as humanly possible.

His level of stress has decreased with each passing day, with every little piece that has fallen into place since the transfer went through, and it has left room for a calm he hasn’t felt in months. Something that lets his mind settle in the evenings – that allows him to drift off to sleep and wake up refreshed every morning. He likes to think that that’s a contributing factor to the smile he’s wearing as he finally pushes his way into the studio again.

Freddie Mercury is asking for somebody to love in there; his voice so familiar in Niall’s ears that he picks up on the song before the words have even registered in his mind. He never gets the time to take them in, either, or to think about the irony of the situation, because Harry’s sat in the same spot at last time, stealing Niall’s attention without resistance.

He’s cradling a different book today; the fingers of his free hand wrapped around a cup instead of a bowl to confirm that a week actually has passed, and that things have changed even though he’s curled in the same position, wearing the same frown of concentration that adorned his face last Thursday. It crumbles when the door slams closed behind Niall and announces his arrival; clouds over in surprise before the recognition kicks in.

“Niall,” he breathes out, smiling softly. “Hi.”

He has a black beanie on that barely covers the tips of his ears, hair curling in loosely against the tanned expanse of his throat that dips down at the neckline of his jumper. It’s a worn piece of clothing, dark blue and stretched enough to tease Niall’s eyes with the name over Harry’s collarbone.

“Hi,” Niall smiles back, his throat so thick with emotion that his voice comes out deeper than usual. Then, because he doesn’t seem to have his usual hold on himself around Harry, he adds, “You’re looking cosy.”

Harry pouts at that – takes a moment to figure Niall’s words out before he traces Niall’s gaze down to his own torso, snorting when it all clicks in place. “Think I’m bound to get sick soon, actually. Tried to wane it off with soup this past week but my throat’s still feeling itchy. And if I catch something, Daniel’s bound to get it too, so. All the more reason to try to fight it.”

Niall’s ears aren’t safe from the reminder either, it seems, and he hates how none of it is bad enough to make his heart rate slow down – how the mere sight of Harry still is enough to make him excited despite the shallow state of their acquaintance. Despite the tattoo Harry’s carrying to underline just how bad of an idea it is for Niall to have a crush on him already, still, and at all.

“If you’ve not been put off by that subtle warning you can just head on through,” Harry murmurs when the silence has stretched on for a moment too long. He’s smiling down at the open page of his book, now, but he’s not hiding the grin or trying to keep it out of his voice. He seems content with his tea, and his book, and Niall’s gaze as a layer on top of it all, keeping everything in place. “Same spot as last time, I’ll join you in a minute.”

The place seems warm, even without the sunbeams that were peeking in through the window last week. The lines on the walls and the shine to the floor gives off a mismatched sense of home, a telling sign that the men that own the place have put a lot of themselves into it. Niall trails into the adjoining room with his hands stuck in the pockets of his trousers, not quite nervous enough to break a sweat, but jittery enough that he’ll pick at his cuticles if he unclenches his fists. He ends up pressing accords to the fabric against his thigh, moving them along with Brian May as the song nears its end, wishing he hadn’t left his guitar with his dad when he gave up the flat back home.

He remembers Louis from last week; recognizes his hunched form where he’s working away at a woman’s shoulder blade. He looks more focused this time, more like Niall had expected a tattoo artist to behave when he’d first set foot in the place, but the furrowed expression looks strange on him. Too deep and too serious compared to the animated man Niall has committed to memory. He only nods in recognition once he realizes that Niall is there, gives a vague smile before he’s dipping his chin back down, zoning in on the buzzing of the gun to block out the hums that drift from last week’s victim.

“Hi, mate. I’m Ed,” the redhead says once he’s let his voice fade out long after the song’s ended. He’s got a kind face, eyes as big as his smile as he pushes his chair back from the illuminated desk he just hovered over. He stretches his hand out in front of him, aiming it like a knight rushing toward his opponent before his grin dissolves into something even brighter – a welcome to reel Niall in. “You were here last week, right? You’re one of Harry’s.”

“Right,” Niall confirms, accepting the hand and giving it a shake. He licks his lips, can feel his brows furrowing in response to what hasn’t even left his mouth yet as he adds, “When you were… under attack.”

Ed lets out a quiet laugh, his whole demeanour soft and comfortable to face as he gives a conceding nod. “I guess some people would see it that way. Do you want a look at the wounds?”

He doesn’t wait for Niall’s weighing expression to fall into a decision, but simply starts at the buttons of his shirt until he can push the plaid fabric aside, revealing an intricate mess of lines that map out the contour of a lion at the centre of his chest. Its eyes are hollow and the design isn’t more than a ghost of the artwork it has the potential to be, but Niall can’t deny that it’s captivating to look at, sparking an interest he’s never related to tattoos before.

“That’s actually…” he mutters, frowning at himself more than anything now – at his faltering dislike for the art form. “Really fucking cool.”

Ed dismisses the comment with a choked-off sound, brushing his hand right underneath the stark lines. “Not yet, it isn’t. Will be sick when we get some colour in, though, once the outline has healed.”

“Will be painful, too,” Harry chimes in, stealing their attention with his characteristic drawl as he comes into the room. There’s a glint in his eye, a pleased smirk tugging one corner of his mouth up in an all too inviting manner, and Niall breathes through a moment of confusion where the outline of the lion blends with the lines of Harry’s face. He blinks against it, tries to keep his expression from revealing the chaos in his mind as he focuses on the cups in Harry’s hands; the way his fingers are long enough to wrap all the way around them. “Won’t feel very _sick_ when you’re three hours in and have Louis cackling above you.”

A shiver ripples beneath Niall’s skin at the very thought, trampling every nerve in his body until he forcibly stops it with a roll of his shoulders. When he finally moves his gaze from the cups in Harry’s hands he’s met with a soft expression on Harry’s face, a smile badly contained in the grip of his teeth to prove that he saw it all.

He cocks an eyebrow, releasing his bottom lip and letting the smile span out across his face before he turns his attention back to Ed, mockery in his tone even when he hands one of the cups over as a peace offering. “Please stop stripping in front of the customers and do some work for a change.”

Ed raises the cup in a vague salute before he fits the brim of it to his bottom lip, wiggling his eyebrows as he takes a sip. The whole exchange reminds Niall of what he’s got with Liam; the endless banter that’s rooted so firmly in genuine care that nothing ever feels strange between them. It’s comforting to watch it play out here, in a setting he never thought he’d feel comfortable in, and it builds a longing somewhere in his chest, telling him that there’s more to gain here than his freedom.

Friendship, perhaps. A home away from home.

Harry makes a compelling argument to turn that longing into something real when he hands Niall the other cup, adding a soft notion of tea, and asking about milk and sugar before he’s gone again, leaving a trail of aftershave to linger in Niall’s nostrils well after he’s shuffled out of the room to get him what he wanted.

He’s sat in the chair a mere couple of minutes later, familiar in the seat and feeling far more used to having Harry curled over his wrist than he should be after just one session. Far too experienced in everything but skin on skin contact as he eyes the tools on Harry’s work bench without a crippling sense of fear. The tea is warm on his tongue, soothing as it washes down his throat and gives him something to focus on, rather than the pads of Harry’s fingers against the irritated skin that surrounds the tattoo.

“You’re definitely eighteen, then,” Harry says, smiling faintly to show that he never really had a doubt. That he’s just messing with Niall, trying to establish how strained his nerves are today. “The ink’s still grey.”

Niall hums softly, resting the cup against his thigh, feeling the warmth seep through his trousers to form a circle on his skin. “So that’s true – that they heal themselves if you do it when you’re underage?”

“The bond isn’t fully developed before then,” Harry explains, rolling back a little and letting go of Niall’s wrist. “Your body is designed to let your fate run its course until you’re mature enough to make your own decisions, so yeah. They do heal themselves.”

His words tumble gently in Niall’s mind, knocking his thoughts about as he mulls them over. They don’t change anything – don’t magically twist his point of view or send a wave of regret coursing through his veins, but they do make sense. Even to someone who’s wished his own tattoo away since before he got it. It isn’t just a name on his skin, it’s compatibility that’s settled deep in his bones, and even if he forces the label off of his exterior it won’t change his insides.

He’s got enough determination to weigh it out, though. Loads of it, spurring him to take control of his own fate before he’s spent half of his life looking for someone he might never meet. The Harry that is ideally suited for him who might not make him any happier than whoever he might bump into along the way.

The warm circle on his thigh has a sharp edge to it now, burning in a way that makes him raise the cup and take another sip. His gaze stretches beyond the bottom of it and lands on Harry’s face, inquisitive as it slips downwards. He’s familiar with Harry’s features already, having spent the better part of their hour together last week observing every little shift of the man’s expression, but he doesn’t know the causes of all of them yet. Doesn’t know how to translate the twitches of Harry’s lips and figure out what he’s thinking about, but he hopes that he’ll get the chance to learn.

“How does one end up with this profession, anyway?” he asks to test the waters, slightly disappointed when Harry’s expression remains the same. “You said you were one of four to do this in Britain, right? It’s not exactly every kid’s dream.”

The seconds tick on, the moment growing more torturous the longer Harry remains quiet. He’s busying himself with the same routines as last time, wiping Niall’s skin, brushing gently along the black lines with a gloved hand while his face is adorned with the same, neutral expression that has Niall’s insides curling with discomfort. He can already feel an apology making its way to his tongue, desperate to convey that he didn’t mean to overstep any boundaries. That he doesn’t need to know.

Harry looks up at him before he gets the chance to blurt anything out, though. His gaze is steadily locked with Niall’s and there’s no irritation flashing in the green of his eyes. Nothing new and harsh for Niall to analyse as he says, “Nothing so reduces and drags down a human being as the consciousness of not being loved.”

He brightens significantly at Niall’s puzzled expression, looking a bit bashful as he aims his smile down at Niall’s wrist and adds, “It’s a quote – from the book I was reading when you came in? I think there’s something to it. Don’t think people should have to live with reminders of what they don’t have if the reminders just tear away at them.”

It’s honest, matched with a sincere expression that leaves Niall a bit breathless, unable to look away. He savours it as he stares; commits every line of Harry’s face to memory because this is what he wanted. He just didn’t think that he’d get something so valuable to go with it – a confirmation that there’s someone out there that can see where he’s coming from and isn’t afraid to admit that there’s downsides to the tattoos.

He rubs his thumb along the handle of his cup, then his lips against each other in a weak attempt to prepare them for his words before he leaps off the edge with a conclusion. “You want to help people.”

“I do,” Harry murmurs, still bashful, still too pretty to look at. Too wrong for Niall to be looking at like this, with curiosity licking at the centre of his palm, willing him to fit his fingers around Harry’s wrist whenever it’s pressed to his skin.

He clears his throat, brings himself back to the moment, back to Harry’s features and admires how smooth they look even when his expression goes solemn. There’s a soft line between his eyebrows, a slight strain to his mouth as he thinks, and Niall isn’t in a rush. He’d be happy to spend his afternoon off here if it meant that he got this moment – this peek into Harry’s life.

“I saw what it can be like up close – what it can do to someone to lose their soulmate,” Harry says after a string of silent moments, grumbling along with the buzz of Louis’ gun. He’s focusing on his hands, moving Niall’s arm into position and taking a steadying breath before he continues. “To see your soulmate’s name every day and know that that’s all you’ll get. No face smiling back at you anymore, no further visuals but your memory. So if I can help someone reduce a fraction of that pain, then I’m happy to do it.”

Niall resists the urge to still Harry’s hands with his own, looking away from Harry’s face for the first time in a while when the sadness upon it makes his chest feel too tight. There’s a moment where he scrambles for words – any of them – desperate for something to say to convey how much he admires the kindness Harry seems to possess. Nothing feels right, though; big and clumsy as he weighs it on his tongue, and eventually the silence has stretched on for far too long.

Harry doesn’t seem fazed by the lack of response, simply moving about while the sadness lingers at the corners of his mouth and makes Niall hate himself for bringing the subject up in the first place. He settles in close eventually, the thumb of his free hand pressing gently against the centre of Niall’s palm to soothe him when he aims the tool down and murmurs, “Tell me if it hurts too much.”

A part of Niall wants to say it back. Wants Harry to have the option to back away from the memories that still linger in his eyes, but the soft tone of Harry’s voice stops him, and he simply nods in response. Takes a deep breath and allows Harry to do his job. Something tells him that that’s the option Harry prefers.

He spends a while focusing on the music, on the basslines of Queen’s greatest hits that paint the room even warmer than it is, just to keep his mind off what Harry’s doing to his skin, to his flesh, to his heart rate. Ed has buttoned up his shirt again, but his sleeves are rolled up, now, revealing more colourful ink all along his forearms. It looks warm, too. Nice to look at, just like the smile he’s aiming at Louis is where they’re both talking to the woman on Louis’ table.

“You seem to have something great going for you here,” Niall points out, aiming his gaze back at Harry, drinking him in. “The three of you.”

It makes a soft smile break out on Harry’s face; dimples shallow, yet enough to tease Niall’s lips into a mirroring grin as he waits for a response.

“We’re mates running our own place,” Harry says lightly, all while his eyes start to brighten up again. “It was a lot of work to get it up and running, but this is what we love to do. It’s been worth it.”

Niall hums as he fits his cup on a different spot on his thigh, taps out the beat of the music with his fingers against the side of it and gives the room another glance. Ed and Louis are backing up, now, letting the woman sit up and throw her legs over the side, all with a smile on her face. The pain hasn’t gotten to her, and there’s no anxiety lining her grin as Louis leads her over to the nearest mirror. Niall’s too far away to see what the mess of ink on her back is supposed to be, but he remembers the sketches he saw last week, and he understands why she’s trusting Louis so blindly.

“Thought you said you’d fidget less this time.”

The pressure of Harry’s thumb against his palm eases; turns into a repetitive, circular stroke when Niall snaps his gaze back to meet Harry’s. His breath stutters at the sight of Harry’s teasing grin, his grip of the cup tightening just to keep himself from gripping on to Harry’s hand instead.

He’s not really surprised that Harry remembers what they talked about last week, but it’s pleasant to get it confirmed that he does. To find that he’s quick to pick it back up and throw it at Niall as if they’re fluent in their own brand of banter.

“Sorry,” Niall presses out through a smile, nowhere near sincere. “I’m always like this. Can’t help it.”

Harry makes a soft sound. “It went well, though, with Liam. I saw the headlines.”

“It _did_ ,” Niall breathes out, pride and happiness blending so fiercely that he mostly just sounds relieved. He hasn’t said it out loud enough times to let it sink in, yet. Has mostly just heard Liam give interviews about it that have made him wonder if he’s been dreaming. “He passed the medical, the deal went through. It was surreal to watch him run out on the field when he was presented to the fans.”

“ _Liam?_ ” Louis questions, letting the incredulous pitch of his voice cut in before Harry has the chance to react. Niall glances over to Louis’ station to find wide eyes under outraged eyebrows, two hands pressed to the abandoned table. “As in Liam _Payne?_ ”

Niall blinks, takes a moment before he nods hesitantly. “He’s my best mate.”

He can’t quite interpret the emotions that flash across Louis’ face, can’t understand what’s happening when Louis suddenly pushes himself back from the table and heads out of the room. Harry’s snorting over his hand, though, shaking with silent laughter even though he’s sat with his back against the scene, and Ed’s looking entirely amused where he’s gone back to his sketches. Niall figures that it’s best to just roll with it, taking a sip of his tea. It’s lukewarm, now, and comforting, even though he doesn’t feel out of place at all.

Louis comes back a moment later, cup in hand and determination written all over his face as he grabs his chair and rolls it noisily across the floor, asking Niall about Liam’s shape before he’s even sat down. It’s not something Niall talks about all that often, not without the pressure to turn his words into a subtle selling point, and he finds himself sinking into the conversation as if it’s an old pair of shoes. Worn in all the right places and familiar to move in as the subject widens in circles around the team, the league, and then the sport in general.

The skin on skin contact still feels brand new, though, prodding at his pulse to keep it racing throughout the session, demanding his attention until he forcibly aims it at the tattoo on Harry’s collarbone and tells himself to get a grip. To focus on the freedom Harry’s helping him get instead.

When they’re done he brings his cup out to the counter, setting it to the side as he watches Harry slide back in place on his stool. He’s already got a hand around his book, fingers spanned out over the back of it as he gives Niall an easy smile.

“I’ve got some actual tattooing to do next Thursday, so I reckon we’ll have to find another day for your next session,” he says. “You could just call and set it up – if you need to check your schedule, I mean.”

Niall keeps looking at him. He can’t seem to stop now that the beanie is sitting crookedly over soft curls and there’s exhaustion framing green eyes. He nods eventually, though, hoping he doesn’t look as much of an idiot as he feels when he says, “Sure, I’ll do that.”

There’s a pause, a loaded moment on Niall’s part where he desperately tries to find a reason to stick around. He’s suddenly wishing that Louis hadn’t had another client coming in to stop their chat – that he’d been free to talk about football over tea for the rest of the afternoon, with Harry and Ed cutting in with their lame jokes to make them all laugh every now and then.

“I’ll just,” he starts eventually, when the moment has stretched on for far too long and he’s scared that Harry will stop looking so kindly at him. “Let you get back to your book, I guess.”

He shuffles backwards, hands in his front pockets to keep himself from tearing his cuticles apart under Harry’s gaze. It doesn’t feel judging upon his skin, just curious, as if Niall is something to figure out. A riddle that walked in and asked to get his destiny back. He can’t remember ever feeling that interesting in anyone else’s presence before.

“I like to read here, when I get a moment to myself,” Harry says, putting a stop to Niall’s awkward disappearance with his words and a vague tilt of his head, only confirming that he’s trying to get a read on Niall. It’s a lot like the first time they saw each other, when he seemed to be deciding if Niall had come to the right place. “It’s peaceful. Daniel’s so lively at home, it’s hard to concentrate when he’s around. And I don’t really want to concentrate on anything but him when we’re together anyway, so. I like to think I’ve found a balance.”

Niall forces a smile past the drop of his stomach, cursing himself over and over in his mind, wondering if the cynical part of himself has gone on holiday. Thinks that it must have, seeing how he’s managed to deceive himself again in a matter of minutes.

He backs up another few steps with the knowledge that his smile already has begun to falter, and when he looks up he thinks that there’s a concerned tilt to Harry’s. He focuses on Harry’s fingers instead, at the way they’re bent over the spine of the book, gripping on as if it’s a lifeline.

Then he tells them, “You know how you said that you want to help people?”

“Yeah?”

Niall smiles, pats the door behind him in search for the handle. “You are.”

*

There’s a tremble to the span of his shoulders, ebbing out to his biceps to remind him that it’s been a long time since he saw the inside of a gym. His t-shirt is sticking to his lower back, and his toes haven’t stopped throbbing since he put a foot of the sofa on top of them, but the flat _is_ starting to come together. The truck came with the furniture he’s kept in a storage room for months, and they’ve spent the better part of the morning carrying things up the stairs, trying to figure out where everything should go while repetitively stating that they’ll hire people to do this for them when Liam and Sophia get moving to their house next week.

“Can’t believe I’m doing this on my day off,” Liam huffs, not for the first time, as he slams a box full of Niall’s books down on the coffee table. He’s falling back on the sofa shortly after, wiping his forehead with the inside of his wrist. “I’m supposed to let my body _rest_.”

Niall snorts. “You’re _supposed_ to be fit enough not to die from a walk up the stairs, is what you are.”

“Aw, Niall. Don’t be mean,” Sophia chastises, her voice melodic with badly contained laughter as she comes in from the kitchen, looking far better than Niall feels. “You know that there’s no stairs in football.”

“Plenty of escalators in the contracts, though,” he hums, nodding faintly as he glances back over at Liam. “Take a break then, old man. I’ll put the kettle on.”

Whatever comment Liam was going to shoot back dies on his tongue when Sophia sinks down beside him, his eyes softening by her presence alone, soothed by her hand on his knee. He has brought her in for a kiss before Niall has had the time to look away, his palm gentle on the side of her neck with the pad of his thumb rubbing just behind her ear, over his own name.

Niall gets it when he looks at them – why it’s so difficult for Liam to understand where Niall’s cynical view of his tattoo has come from. Liam and Sophia found each other when they were sixteen, so he never really had the chance to doubt her existence before she came around and swept him off his feet. Never had to go through the uncertainty that comes with each passing year, and never found himself glancing over his own shoulder every time he heard the name Sophia out in town.

The kitchen is as much of a mess as the rest of the flat, but Sophia has put curtains up in the window, and stocked enough of the cupboards to make it feel less like a ghost of a home, though he’s sure that it will take him a while before he’s there. Before he can truly say that he feels like he belongs here. There’s a different rhythm in this city, in the pace of the traffic outside and the whirr of human interactions that seep in through his windows. He’s going to have to get used to the way his furniture looks in a different apartment, and learn what it’s like to be a two hour car journey away from his dad.

Sophia joins him eventually, smiling at his curled position on the counter and reminding him why this will be okay. Why fitting in around here won’t be so hard. She settles a hip against the bench and reaches out to ruffle his hair, just like she always does. He’s torn between ducking out of her touch and leaning into it, just like he always is.

“Will you be okay if we leave soon?” she asks, making a hairstyle of the mess she’s made of his fringe. Her eyes are warm, popping in a whole different way than they do when she’s got makeup on, and Niall sighs dramatically to make her squeeze them together in amusement.

“I suppose. I’m a big boy now,” he replies, fitting his hands beneath his thighs, flattening his fingers against the wood. “Where are you off to?”

The kettle is boiling, and Sophia’s already reaching for it, opening the cupboard closest to her one handed to grab the first cup. “Liam’s parents head home tonight, they wanted to meet up for lunch. Spend their last hours here together.”

Niall nods, thinks that he should have remembered that as he watches Sophia move around the kitchen as if she’s been here for weeks. His memory hasn’t been sharp lately, thrown off by a personal life that has managed to take up a lot of space with very little substance. In-between work and the move he’s been trying to find his place, wondering if there’s a way to turn the lads from the studio into a permanent fixture in his life, and he’s missed out on a lot of details. Drifted a bit too far when he’s been caught up in his own thoughts.

“Of course,” he nods again, with more force this time. “Tell them I said hi, yeah? And that I’ll miss them.”

Sophia keeps smiling at him, even when she wraps both hands around a cup and leans back against the opposite set of counters. She doesn’t call out for Liam, she just stands there, sharing a devious look with Niall as they both count the seconds half-heartedly, waiting for him to join them.

“You’ll need to do some grocery shopping,” she tells him eventually, cutting over the exaggerated yawn that seeps in from the living room once she’s rolled her eyes in an all too fond manner. “Is there a shop nearby?”

Niall slides one of the prepared cups over the countertop, wary to keep it a few inches from his leg. He thinks of the burning circle on his thigh a couple of days ago, of how different the warmth it shed was compared to Harry’s touch.

“I’ll have to check.” His voice is gruff, forcing him to clear his throat. “Was thinking I’d head out to see Harry, anyway.”

He looks up at the sound of dragging feet, just in time to see Liam come in through the door. His brow is furrowed and his eyes are sceptical, announcing a brand of concern that Niall has been faced with since he was twelve. “Your Harry-removing Harry?”

Niall tugs a hand free from underneath his thigh to rub it over his face, sighs into his palm and says, “He’s just Harry.”

“ _Just_ Harry?” Liam questions, grasping Niall’s wrist lightly to tug it away from his face, pressing his fingers just where the irritation fades out. “Shouldn’t your tattoo-Harry have that title?”

 _The ‘whatever makes you happy’_ comment Liam gave a couple of weeks ago seems to have slipped from his mind again. His moments of understanding often do in-between their recurring chats about Niall’s decisions.

Niall looks at him, at the play of confusion on Liam’s face, and then over to Sophia, and the hesitation that reflects on hers. He’s not in the mood to discuss this another time, he’d rather not do it again in his life, and he certainly doesn’t want to do it now, here, on a day that is supposed to symbolise that they’re moving forward.

“ _Liam_ ,” he warns. “I don’t want to get into this again.”

His friend opens his mouth again; looks like he’s about to steal a breath and spit it back out with another speech about how it will be worth it when Niall finally meets the one who’s suited for him. How no one else will manage to make him feel so at ease in his own skin. Liam makes the mistake of glancing over at his fiancée, though, and the scene that unfolds between them is better than any argument Liam’s ever told him before. It’s not enough to change Niall’s mind, but the way a simple look between the couple is enough to hold an entire conversation is one of the most fascinating things he’s ever seen.

Liam closes his mouth; exhales without a string of lecturing words before he tries again, softer as he lets go of Niall’s arm. “Yeah, okay. _Fine_. Why do you need to see him? A bit early for another session, isn’t it?”

“I’m just going there to book my next appointment.”

Niall shifts his weight, sneaks his fingers around the handle of his cup and takes a sip; hopes that he can blame his undoubtedly pink cheeks on lingering heat from the trips up and down the stairs, or maybe on the tea. Somehow he never learned to keep as cool in his personal life as he does when he’s working.

“ _Oh_ ,” Liam breathes out, dragging Niall’s gaze back, blinking at him in realization. “You _like_ him.”

“Shut up.”

“You _do_ ,” Liam insists, high-pitched and frantic as he points an accusing finger in all directions but Niall’s. His eyes have gone wide, edged with the same concern they held when he came in, and Niall hates when he’s faced with it. Hates when the roles are reversed like this. “This is _bad_.”

“It’s not _bad_ , because it’s _nothing_ ,” Niall tells him. Sharp, definitive, fixing Liam with a stare. “I’ve had a crush on just about everyone I’ve met since I was fifteen, Liam, don’t turn this into a big deal.”

He tilts his head forward, lets the strain in his neck connect with the frustration that is pushing at his temples as he sighs another time. It’s better like this, with the surface of the tea to stare into. Expressionless; not even his own face glares back at him.

“I just want to do it in person – get the appointment and talk through the opportunities we have to get you a consultation,” he adds on. His voice has already lost its edge, torn apart by the urge to leave the topic behind. “I talk enough on the phone as it is.”

Sophia isn’t buying it. Once Niall looks up at her she’s biting the inside of her cheek, holding her cup just below her chin as if she’s ready to use it to shut herself up. The reveal is in the way she blinks, in the way her lashes sweep up and down slowly, failing to wipe the knowledge away from her eyes.

Liam’s not as intuitive – hasn’t been treating Niall like a younger brother the way she has since they first met. He simply lets his expression soften at the final sentence, holding his palms up in defeat. “Alright, alright. You know I’m just looking out for you, mate. You said he’s already got a soulmate.”

“He does,” Niall confirms. He doesn’t pay attention to the taste on his tongue, just fights to keep the sting of it from seeping into his words. “One he’s been talking very fondly of.”

“Of course he has.”

It’s not unkind in any way – isn’t meant to put Niall into place. Liam’s voice is soft, and his gaze is aimed at Sophia, full of love. Brimming with the knowledge of what it’s like to care so deeply about someone that you don’t know how to keep their name out of your conversations.

Niall hopes that he’ll reach that point, too, once he’s not held back anymore. Once the fading letters are entirely gone and he won’t have to lower that curious gaze to his wrist and fill his lungs with guilt anymore. When he finally has someone that is his to drink in.

“You should probably go,” he ends up saying, still looking at them, still holding that tiny bit of resentment that he won’t admit to anyone. For what they have, for Liam’s wavering understanding, for the part of himself that still wishes for his soulmate to show up and stop him. “If you want to make it to lunch, I mean.”

He hugs Sophia out in the hall, fills his lungs with her perfume to have something familiar to hold on to when he closes the door behind them, but it doesn’t ease the tension in his muscles. Doesn’t dissolve the knot in his chest that always tightens when he has to defend himself against an attack from someone he loves.

*

Liam’s words are still ringing in his ears when he rounds the corner of the street an hour later, the accusation running on repeat in his mind, making him feel like he still has something to deny. Like there’s a lingering layer of truth to Liam’s words that he won’t let seep through his skin, where it can cause some real danger.

It’s warm outside, and he feels a bit clammy even though he scrubbed the sweat and dust off of his body before he went out. People are walking around in t-shirts and shorts, and he feels like he’s overdone it in his jeans. Can practically feel how the black denim is soaking up the sunbeams before he slips into the shielding shadow of the building and continues with a growing sense of insecurity.

He could turn around, just to prove to himself that he doesn’t _need_ to see Harry. To determine that he hasn’t grown attached to something that still is so fleeting in his life, because he knows, deep down, that he has no right to expect anything from Harry. Not even a friendship.

Ed’s sat outside of the studio, though, perched on a ledge that’s sticking out beneath the wide window, letting a trail of smoke seep out with the laughter he sends off to the man he’s out smoking with. It’s a bulky guy without a shirt, the skin over his ribs shifting in pinks and blacks to let Niall know that he’s another victim – another piece of art in the making.

It doesn’t take long for Ed to notice him, his gaze travelling over faces he may or may not know until a double take makes it land on Niall, flicking up and down a couple of times before he smiles in recognition. And Niall doesn’t have the option to turn around anymore.

He stops a few feet away, stealing a lungful of discarded smoke. “Hey.”

“You good?” Ed asks in a way of greeting, brushing his hair away from his forehead with the same hand that’s holding his cigarette. There’s ink on the inside of his fingers, smeared slightly to the filter. “Harry’s inside.”

Niall nods, swallows, tells himself that there’s nothing to read into as he pushes his way through the door. There’s Pink Floyd streaming out of the speakers, but no sound of traffic. Then there’s Harry’s aftershave, and no lingering trace of smoke in the air. He would never have thought that he’d come to like this place.

Harry’s there, leaning forward with his elbows on the counter, both hands tangled in his hair like a support system to keep him upright. He’s blinking slowly, focusing on Niall’s form in the doorway as if he’s struggling to recognise him in the casual outfit.

“Tired?” Niall asks, too enamoured by the play of confusion on Harry’s face to keep the grin out of his voice. He steps away from the door, gets himself closer in no time, just as clarity wipes at Harry’s expression.

“Only a little,” he croaks out through a bashful smile. “Didn’t get much sleep.”

Niall watches as Harry fits the back of a finger against his eyelid to prove it; how he rubs it softly while the hair he let go of falls softly against his temple. The exhaustion is there, in the faintest of lines under his eyes, in the messy state of his hair and in the shirtsleeves that are held in place by his fingers against his palms. The warmth from outside doesn’t seem to have reached him.

“Wild night?”

Harry snorts. “It’s been a while since I’ve had one of them.”

His voice is rougher than usual. Raw. Strained beyond the usual rasp that has a way of making Niall’s skin feel too hot. Now it reminds him of tea, and soup, and a complaint about an itchy throat. He’s no Miss Marple, but it’s enough to go on to make everything fall into place.

“I was nearby – thought it’d be easier to drop in to book the next appointment,” he says, swaying with uncertainty as he scratches along his jawline, down his throat, away from his mouth. In the end he shoves his fingers into his front pockets, curling them into the fabric.  “But if it’s a bad time I can come back later. Or call.”

“No, no.” Harry shakes his head, his eyes closed against the impact of his action once he stills again. There’s a moment when he looks back up where the rush hasn’t faded from his eyes yet; where they’re unfocused but bright, enthralling to watch. “I had to clear my schedule for the afternoon, it’s fine. I’ve got time for you.”

Niall swallows, closes the final few feet between himself and the counter and tries to keep his exhale from trembling at the close proximity of Harry’s features. Of the tired lines that frame everything but his smile. It’s easier to see from here; how there’s redness in Harry’s eyes and a drought upon his lips that doesn’t go away when Harry flicks his tongue over them. Niall bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from suggesting a nap.

“It’s going to be tough, now that I’ve got the cancelled sessions from today to fit in, too,” Harry mutters, clearing his throat as he pushes himself back. “But if you’re not opposed to coming here in the evening it should be fine.”

He looks away from Niall’s face before they’ve established a proper contact, torn away from Niall’s building reaction when a series of thumps comes crashing in from behind him. There’s a crack in the wall a moment later, a tear through the art that reveals a door behind Harry’s twisted form. Louis’ face is creased with concern when it pops into view.

“He’s stirring again. Cough’s sounding a bit worse,” he’s saying, twisting his expression into a grimace as he pushes the door open a bit wider. Niall can see a few steps back there; a few inches of a wooden railing, and Louis’ right foot lingering on a higher step. “You know I’d stay with him, but I’ve got a client coming in and I haven’t finished my lunch.”

Harry’s already gotten off his stool, his shoulders tense, his fingers letting go of the sleeves of his shirt. The fatigue seems to have slipped right out of him and Niall doesn’t quite follow – is reminded of how little he knows about these lads.

“Don’t worry about it, Lou, I’ll handle it,” Harry drawls, sounding so sure, so at ease. He waves at Louis, at the empty space behind him. “Go back to what you were doing.”

Louis hums in agreement, almost entirely convinced as he shifts his gaze over to Niall, regarding him with a quick nod before he’s gone again. It leaves Harry in the same position, set for action in a scene Niall is unprepared for. Unaware of.

“I can come back later,” he suggests again, because it seems like a better option, now. A better suggestion to Harry’s rigid posture.

His curls are a contrast when he shakes his head in response, swaying softly against the side of his neck when he turns to face Niall again, smiling faintly to welcome him into the script. “We only need a minute set you up, you can come upstairs if you want. If you’re still not worried that you’ll get sick.”

The steps are narrow, with walls bracketing them on both sides, and Niall feels clumsy as he moves over them. Misplaced, even though Harry invited him – even though Harry is inviting him, still, with the curve of his arse in his skin-tight jeans.

The right wall turns into a low fence when they reach the second floor, a living room pouring out before Niall’s eyes in the most inviting of ways. There’s a _flat_ up here, complete with comfortable-looking furniture and a scent of burnt toast, and Harry looks just right in it. In the way he sinks down on the sofa that’s pushed up against the far wall, and in the way he’s hunching over the tiny figure that’s curled upon it, pressing the inside of his wrist against the forehead of the little boy.

“No fever,” he’s muttering to himself, soft enough that Niall has to strain to hear it. He’s embarrassed by the level of his own curiosity. “You’re okay.”

Niall can see that the roots of the same concern that Louis had shown are spread all over Harry’s face, sharper where it’s lining his mouth and eyebrows. There’s care in his palms, something more defined than the pressure he’s put to Niall’s skin before, and Niall wishes that he’d said no. That he never had come up here, to see this, to intrude like this.

He squirms on the spot, his hands back in his pockets since he took them off the railings on his way up, but he doesn’t get to suggest his own exit before Harry’s breaking the brief silence with an exhale, a rush of torn relief.

“Come on, take a seat,” he suggests, waving at the options, at the armchairs that build half a rectangle with the sofa. “He’s a sound sleeper, it’s fine.”

The _he_ is like a push; a confirmation that the boy really is there that kicks Niall’s mind back in action and lets it shed attention on the things he missed. The toys that are stacked on the shelves in the corner, and the army of cars in various sizes that is spread over the floor. It’s a different world up here.

The wonder must reflect on his face, in the expression he’s wearing when he finally sinks down in a chair, because Harry’s grin is back, and it has a teasing curve to it that makes Niall’s breath stutter.

“Let’s see.” Harry leans back, angles his body towards the boy to slip his phone out of his back pocket, thumbing his way through his apps. “I’ve got Friday night free, but you probably don’t.”

He’s already scrolling onwards, eyeing his screen with bloodshot eyes and ignoring the unexplained matter of the sleeping child by his side. Niall cuts through it, through Harry’s search and his own curiosity by saying, “No, it’s fine with me. Liam is the only social life I’ve got around here so far, and he usually spends his Friday nights with his girl.”

“You’re not – I mean, you’ve got us now,” Harry tells him. His voice is monotone, slightly cracked before he clears his throat. “You can come and hang out in the studio whenever you want.”

It’s the invite Niall’s been hoping for, delivered sooner than he was expecting, but now that he has it, it doesn’t feel quite right. Not up here, in this world away from the studio, where nothing quite makes sense. He won’t decline, though. Won’t say no to an opportunity to figure things out in the future.

He’s about to reply when a cough ripples through the room, small, yet sharp as it cuts through the air, and it takes him a moment to realize where it came from. To see that the concern is back in Harry’s eyes, and in the hand he’s pressing to the boy’s side, comforting him as he stirs awake.

The child blinks, over and over, trying to figure the situation out the same way Harry did down in the studio, when Niall first came in. It’s entrancing to watch – makes fondness curl in Niall’s stomach as he watches the wobbly few tries it takes for the bleary eyed boy to sit up. Once he’s there, though, pressed tight against Harry’s side with his legs crossed in front of him, it’s easy to tell who he is. His hair’s a lighter shade of brown, his eyes a lighter shade of green, but the mouth has the same shape as Harry’s and it moves in similar ways when he finally talks.

“ _Hi_ , daddy.”

He sounds happy, a bit breathless as if he’s pleasantly surprised to see Harry there, smiling down along the line of his arm with fondness written all over his face. Not even the exhaustion stands a chance against that emotion.

“Did you sleep well, buddy?” Harry asks, brushing over the red stain of warmth on the boy’s cheek with a gentle thumb.

Niall has thought that Harry’s voice has been soft before. Has thought a lot about that slow drawl, and wanted to wrap it around himself when he’s been awake at night, worrying about work. Nothing he’s heard compares to this, though; to the care that’s laced around every word, or the way the boy seemingly sinks into it, closing his eyes under Harry’s touch as if he’s ready to be lulled back to sleep again.

He hums in reply, smiling just enough to let Niall know that there’s a dimple hiding in his left cheek. It doesn’t take more than that for Niall’s chest to tighten. He doesn’t want to acknowledge it now, not here, but he knows himself well enough to tell that there’s a clash within the confines of his ribcage. A fondness brought on by the beauty of the scene, battling the drop of disappointment that doesn’t seem to have an end. He’s sure that Liam’s concerned expression is woven into the fight, there to taunt him – to show what a hopeless idiot he’s been to hope despite all the facts.

“Where’s Lou?”

“He’s in the kitchen,” Harry replies, still soft, still making Niall’s heart race with the way he’s looking at his son. “You can go and see what he’s doing if you want.”

“Mhm,” the boy hums back, nodding once in a decisive manner before he’s pushing his way to the edge of the sofa, rolling over to his stomach before he lowers himself to the floor. “Thank you, daddy.”

Niall misses the way the boy sprints out of the room, too caught up in the glints in Harry’s eyes – in the undoubtable pride that’s making them brighter than Niall’s ever seen them before. He breathes it in and keeps it in his lungs for a while, hoping that it will settle the war within the frame of his bones. That his heart will get over what it never had and stop making him feel so full of emotions he’s not entitled to feel.

“How old is he?”

Harry’s smile gains strength, his eyes never losing their shine as he aims his gaze back at Niall. They’ve got a gravitational pull when they’re like this – can make a man forget to breathe if the contact lasts long enough. Niall’s heart is weak.

“He’s two and a half,” Harry says. He averts his eyes when he turns his head, coughs into the bend of his arm and gives Niall a moment to catch his breath. “And he’s quite the talker.”

Niall nods, “A polite one, at that. He’s amazing.”

The boy comes shuffling back in, a plastic cup held with both hands, and a look of concentration adorning his face. It darkens slightly when he reaches the sofa, clouds over in confusion when he recognises the struggle he’ll have to go through, but clears just as quickly when he offers the glass to his dad and climbs back up.

Niall thinks that it’s time for him to go. That he can set up a consultation for Liam over the phone if it means that he’ll give Harry some privacy with his son again. He knows that it must have been a big step for the man to invite Niall up here in the first place, and he doesn’t want to overstay his welcome.

Then Harry laughs, soft but bright, and Niall doesn’t know how anyone walks away from that, but he knows that he can’t blame himself for having a crush on the lad. Can’t imagine that anyone who’s met Harry has walked away unaffected, whether they’ve known about his soulmate or not.

The boy’s expression twists over the cup for a brief moment, his lips pursed and his eyes squeezed closed as a shiver works its way through his body. A moment later he looks up at his dad, looking faintly disappointed as he mutters, “Was cold.”

“Oh,” Harry breathes out, failing to keep the amusement out of his voice. “Was it?”

“Yes. I want it warm,” the boy presses on. “We can blow on it.”

Niall’s insides crumble. Bone by bone, vein by vein – it’s all becoming dust, sinking to his feet. The boy’s looking expectant, now, certain that he’s gotten it right and that his idea is a good one. There’s trust in his eyes, a look of experience that says that his dad has helped him out so many times before. That he’s expecting it to go the same way again.

Harry just smiles down at him, portraying the same kind of fondness that Niall feels as he says, “That’s the other way around, Danny. We blow on hot chocolate, remember? It won’t help to blow on cold water.”

The boy looks doubtful for a moment, weighing his father’s words carefully before his face splits in a smile. The resemblance between them is striking like this, their happiness bouncing off of each other even when the boy gets caught up in a yawn. Niall can’t think about it too much, though. Can’t get overwhelmed by the heart-warming moment when his mind is playing the same word over and over again.

“Danny?” he repeats despite himself, despite the lines he might be crossing. “Isn’t that – is it short for Daniel?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please know that absolutely nothing happens in this part. I did decide to cut the story up in three instead of two, though, because why not. It's still a work of fiction, and the title's still from the song by The Get Up Kids.

“Didn’t you say that you talk enough on the phone as it is?” Liam mumbles in greeting when Niall calls him that evening. It doesn’t sting, but he sounds tired when he says it, as if the conversation they had that morning has been weighing him down ever since.

Niall’s had enough information piled on top of that conversation to find his way back to it, to the irritation he’d felt that had chased him around the corner of the street and into the studio. He’s not in the mood for another argument.

“Have your parents gone?”

“About an hour ago, yeah,” Liam tells him. “Mum cried.”

Niall snorts, settling back into the corner of his sofa. His feet are cold, but he can’t be bothered to find a pair of socks in the stack of boxes in his bedroom, only shoves his toes between the cushions and closes his eyes against the bare walls in his living room. “She always does. It’s part of her charm.”

He listens to the silence, to the lack of noise from a telly, or anything to indicate that Sophia’s moving about in the background. He knows that they’ll be stuck in their hotel room for another few days, that there’s little space for them to share in there. The silence is probably all for her, to let her focus on her website in the middle of all the chaos.

“So?” Liam breathes out eventually, when their breaths have gone tired of wandering back and forth on the line. He doesn’t sound impatient, and Niall knows him well enough to assume that he’d stay quiet on the other end for hours if he thought that that was what Niall needed. Now there’s just a push, though. A gentle nudge to get Niall going in whichever direction he wants.

He decides to go straight to the point. “ _So_ , maybe you were right. Maybe it’s not nothing.”

Liam’s presence dissolves in a rush of air, a contained groan that shows that he’s trying to hold himself back, reluctant to bring it all up again. “Niall, he’s got a _soulmate_. This isn’t like you.”

“No, he’s got a _son_ ,” Niall protests, too defensive, too riled up after his admission. He _knows_ that it’s not like him; that he’s never been the kind of guy to even think about someone that is in a committed relationship, but it’s different, now. The guilt has changed its colour. “ _Daniel_ is a two year old _boy_.”

Liam doesn’t hold his groan back this time. It comes rumbling out with his exhale and takes the form of a whine, sharp with doubt as it slices through Niall’s ears. He’s probably pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose at this point, eyes closed as he breathes through his concern. He’s always concerned for Niall.

“So he’s a dad. That doesn’t mean that he hasn’t found his soulmate,” Liam points out, ever the rational one. Always trying to be, at least. It’s something that Niall admires about him whenever he’s not on the receiving end of the sensible sidenotes. “I’d say it only makes it more likely that he has.”

Niall sighs out in faint agreement. He’s been thinking about it ever since he came home, full of confusion but without groceries. There are takeout boxes on the coffee table that speak of the distraction, and a handful of drafts among his emails that were interrupted by flashing images of the scene he was a part of in the flat around the corner. Dimples and unguarded smiles in the middle of so much affection – he can’t shake any of it off his mind.

“I need to buy a coffeemaker,” he states, because it’s easier. More urgent. Things may have calmed down significantly since the transfer, but he still has a lot of things to get them through before he can relax again. “I left the old one with dad.”

“Can’t you just ask him to bring it when he comes for a visit?”

He groans, sinks lower on the couch and stares at the nearest wall. The telly isn’t plugged in yet, and he can barely distinguish its contours across the room now that the sun has set. He has no idea where the light switch is. “He can keep it. Not my guitar, though. He’ll have to bring her.”

Liam snorts. “Of course he will. She was always destined for bigger things than Wolverhampton.”

The sofa smells of spilt beer and detergent that must have rubbed off his clothes over the past years. It’s bigger than the one in the flat above the studio, but it feels small when he’s lying on it, stretching his legs and untucking his toes, pressing them against the armrest instead. There’s room for more people – for another warm body like his own, for a smaller one curled up in the corner.

“I think she might be dead?” he ponders out loud, though it’s not very loud at all. Just above a whisper thanks to the emotion that is pushing his voice into hoarseness. “Not my guitar, I mean – shit. His soulmate. Harry’s soulmate.”

He’s been thinking about it since he sat there, waiting for Harry to say something, to explain what he wasn’t obliged to explain. There’d been a hint of sadness in the middle of all the fondness he was aiming at his boy, then. Something that still echoed familiarly in Niall’s mind when he’d made a final confirmation of _‘Friday’_ and waved an awkward goodbye to Danny. Things didn’t fully click until he was halfway through his lunch.

“I know it’s – that it’s an awful thing to assume,” he forces out, past the grit in his own voice, willing it to carry his contemplation. “But he said something during my last session, about how he’s seen what it can do to someone to lose their soulmate. How painful it can be.”

“And you think he was talking about himself?”

Niall thinks of the sadness that had been swimming in Harry’s eyes during that last session, and how it had taken time for it to fade. How it had resurfaced today, pushing at his happiness even when he was lifting his son into his lap to offer the boy more comfort.

“I won’t stick my nose in it, though,” he murmurs, confirming Liam’s words, but also defending himself from what hasn’t been said – from what Liam undoubtedly is thinking. “I don’t have any right to.”

“Neither do I,” Liam breathes out. There’s a faint melody in the background, now, something Sophia must be playing while she works that provides a nice distraction. It diffuses a lot of tension. “To tell you how to feel, I mean. I keep forgetting that it’s different for everyone, and I just – I’m sorry that I do. That I sound like the bloody soulmate police every time we talk about it.”

Niall clears his throat, “I didn’t get you a consultation with Louis. My mind was all over the place, I forgot to, before I left. But I’ll call them tomorrow, to set it up.”

“Was that,” Liam starts, then he stops himself, lets the music entertain while he regroups his thoughts. “Did you just change the topic?”

He sounds baffled, as if he hasn’t known Niall since they were kids, lost somewhere in the curve of Niall’s progression. It makes Niall smile, finally, finding his way back to the root of their friendship, where Liam always has the ability to blur everything else out and amuse him.

“Yeah,” he says, indifferent, shrugging his shoulders against the cushion beneath him. It makes his shirt bunch up slightly, just enough for it to feel uncomfortable. “So you won’t have to arrest me or anything, if I happen to mention Harry again.”

He can hear Liam mutter under his breath; something about how big of an idiot Niall is, spoken in a low tone that fails to conceal his amusement. “You know I’m as old as you are, right? I can take care of myself. It’s not your job to do everything for me.”

Niall does know. He forgets sometimes, though, and acts like a third parent because he’s so caught up in it all. He usually has Liam’s schedule branded on the inside of his eyelids and he always knows what needs to be done, often struggling to find the line between personal and business as he goes. He doesn’t mean to diminish anyone when he’s rushing about.

“You’re my best mate,” he argues, mostly on autopilot because it’s the only response he has. He’s used it for years, and he knows that Liam is tired of hearing it. That it’s lost its power even though it’s the truth. “We always said I’d be there, to make things easier. To make sure everything goes right.”

“And you _do_ , and I love you for it,” Liam breathes out, his voice deep with concern. He’s always so fucking concerned. “I’ll call him myself, though, to set it up. Just text me their number, okay?”

“Okay,” Niall echoes. He digs his elbow into the cushion and pushes himself up, letting his shirt fall back down over his lower back as he gets up on his feet. “Just tell Louis that you’ve got practice tomorrow afternoon – that you can’t make it to their consultation time. I’m sure he’s got five minutes to spare on another day for you.”

It takes a moment for Liam to reply. One filled with music, breaths, and a dose of unspoken disbelief swimming across the city before it’s finally breathed out in a soft, “You’re _impossible_.”

*

The one time of the day when Niall actually remembers that he needs to buy a new coffeemaker is when his alarm shocks him awake in the morning, when his muscles ache at the very thought of shifting beneath the covers to reach out and stop the shrill noise from tearing his flat apart. He has usually forgotten all about it as soon as he’s got his fingers on the keys of his laptop, though, which is why the moment keeps repeating itself every day, forcing him to stop by for a takeaway cup to get his mornings started.

He has no meetings to attend that Wednesday, and his new office hasn’t been graced with as much as a plant for good luck yet, so even though he’s set his usual alarm for too-fucking-early o’clock he’s not in a hurry to go anywhere. He can stretch until his spine is arching off the mattress, and let his skin brush over the sheet as he shoves his arms under his pillow. Can steal a lungful of detergent and breathe it out to make the fabric warm up against his face while the sun keeps rising over the roof of the neighbouring building.

None of it helps him forget about his need for coffee, though.

The air is still chilly out on the street, taunting his decision to wear shorts as it bites onto his legs and creeps up under the jumper he wisely snatched from the sofa on his way out the door. The sky is a clear blue over the rooftops, though, and he has a good feeling when he rounds the corner, shifting the strap of his bag over his shoulder and scanning the street as he moves forward. It’s quiet, yet, with a small number of people strewn about, heading to their jobs with sleep still lingering in the corners of their eyes, and it takes him a while to realize that one of them is Liam.

He’s stood outside the studio, swaying on the balls of his feet in front of a Louis that looks like a zombie in comparison, dressed down in sweats with nothing but the strands of his fringe sticking out from the protection of his hoodie while he breathes out smoke against the fresh feel of the morning. Niall doesn’t know why he found it easier to recognize a man he’s only met a couple of times than one he’s seen every day since he was twelve, but if anyone asks he’ll blame the circumstances. He’d never expect Liam to be here, and he rarely expects Liam to wear anything but shorts and t-shirts these days, either.

“Trying to get with the cool kids again, are you, Liam?” he shouts when he’s gotten close enough not to disturb the entire street with the scratch of his voice. The two of them turn their heads, wild looks of surprise in their eyes as they narrow in on Niall’s moving figure, and Niall can’t remember the last time he was so amused so early in the morning.

He stops by the café door, hand wrapped around the strap of his bag to keep it from digging into the bone as he eyes the cigarette between Louis’ fingers. It sends him back to uni, to the crippling stress and the devastating lack of sleep he didn’t manage to shake until he graduated. There’s still a twisted sense of comfort embedded in the scent that creeps up on him, now, but he doesn’t miss it. Doesn’t allow himself to do so, knowing that he’d be sucked back in by a single drag if he tested himself, stuck with an ashtray at work to get him through the phone calls and the emails that line his days.

“Don’t even think about it,” Liam tells him, a bit distant through the reverie and the faint sound of moving vehicles. His eyes are intent when Niall looks into them, unnervingly aware of what’s gone through Niall’s head during the past fifteen seconds, but Niall appreciates it. It’s the kind of concern he’s happy to be faced with.

He shakes his head eventually, rubbing the sides of his fingers together to rid himself of the itch while Louis kindly blows the smoke out in a different direction, perceptive in his silence. He looks tired under the fabric of his hoodie, all droopy eyes and red, angry marks across his cheek to show that it must be mere minutes since he got out of bed.

“Did he drag you here at the crack of dawn just to talk about his tattoo?” Niall asks him, shifting his gaze back to Liam when he adds, “See, _this_ is why I don’t trust you with your own schedule. You’re too impulsive.”

Louis snorts. His grin is teasing, but his eyes are soft when he aims them at Liam, sparking alive with the same kind of excitement he’d shown when he was talking Niall’s ear off about football during the last session.

“It’s okay,” he assures, “I live upstairs, so I didn’t have to be dragged very far.”

Niall furrows his brows, “You too? How much space do you have up there?”

He watches as Louis stubs his cigarette out in the ashtray back on the ledge of the wall, unnerved by the way the unexplained bits of information are starting to form a tower in his mind. There’s a voice circulating in there, too, reminding him that he doesn’t have a right to know any of it. That his wish to find a home among these people doesn’t entitle him to know a thing.

“Enough for the three of us, with room for Danny to grow,” Louis tells him, easy as anything. “There used to be an art gallery here before we took over, so the upstairs was just used for storage and studio space. Harry needed a bigger flat, and I just needed _a_ flat. Any flat, really. So we fixed it up.”

Niall didn’t see more than the living room when he was up there, but it was enough for him to notice the similarities – the extended features that tie living space and studio together for those that walk right through and up the stairs.

“So,” Louis continues, nudging an elbow against Niall’s side while he tips his head back towards the door. The hood falls off and his hair fans out messily across his forehead, but it still manages to look unfairly good for seven thirty AM. “You coming in with us?”

Niall shakes his head, uncomfortably aware of the state of his own hair and how the remains of hairspray from yesterday has made it stay away from his forehead since he shoved his fingers through it on his way out of the door. “I’m here for some coffee, actually.”

“Still haven’t bought a new machine?” Liam chimes in, light and curious, infuriating to anyone that holds the knowledge that it took him three months to get a new dishwasher when the one in his last flat broke. There’d been a mountain of plates left in the sink when Sophia was out of town for a week, and Niall still has nightmares about the things he found when he sorted through them after a gruelling afternoon of fifa.

Now he exhales, and tries his best not to roll his eyes when he says, “Been busy sorting your career out, haven’t I?”

“And I am ever so grateful for it,” Liam is quick to tell him, grinning in response because he knows that it will make the irritation wash right off of Niall’s skin if he sways on the spot and hums softly under his breath. It _is_ awfully disarming.

Niall doesn’t bother with a reply. He’s longing for caffeine and the warmth of a coffee cup, still too drowsy to feel settled in the slow rise of the temperature. His legs feel exposed, his toes as cold inside his shoes as they’ve been in his flat for the past week, and he wonders if his poor blood circulation is another thing he got from his mum. It’s something to add to the list of things to talk about the next time he calls his dad.

For now he just wants to get inside, though, and preferably stay there until the sun has travelled far enough across the sky to lick properly at his skin when he walks home. He shifts the strap of his bag another time, shifts his weight to his right foot and shuffles it back a few inches, parting words ready on his tongue when Louis suddenly turns on his feet and disappears into the studio.

When he comes back he’s got a sketchpad in his hand and a pen behind his ear, a spark of determination in his eyes that weren’t there before as he fishes out a set of keys from his pocket and turns to lock up the door.

“I’ll need a cup, too, if we want my work to be any good,” is his explanation once he’s done. He smiles softly at Liam, a gentle kind of brightness aimed with precision that Liam just manages to nod in response to. “I’ll text Harry to let him know where I’ve gone.”

Niall sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, willing the curiosity off his tongue as he looks down the street. He can feel Liam’s eyes on him, the weight of Liam’s consideration pressing against the side of his face as if he’s willing Niall to break. To spill his question, or maybe just to let the care he holds dust his cheeks with a shade of pink.

It doesn’t take more than a couple of seconds before Liam’s talking, though, tuning in to Niall’s thoughts in an attentive, best mate sort of way when he asks, “Is he not here?”

“He’s dropping his son off at nursery,” Louis mumbles, a bit distracted with his phone, wearing a line between his eyebrows that speaks of his concentration. “Will probably join us in a minute, though.”

Niall doesn’t hesitate this time. Doesn’t stop himself or his curiosity, but simply blurts, “Oh. So they’re feeling better, then?”

It comes out awfully caring, and he can tell by Liam’s pointed eyebrows and the twist of his mouth that he’s fighting back a mix of sarcasm and amusement – some comment about how obvious Niall is being and how it should be impossible to perceive his interest as anything but white-hot infatuation.

Louis doesn’t seem to notice, either too disinterest to care, or simply blind to the play of emotions on Niall’s face when he finally looks up from his phone and nods.

“Yeah, they’re back to their happy, unbearably energized selves again,” he says. He manages to sound bitter about it, too, but the fondness is there, bright and obvious in the lines around his eyes, effectively ruining the act.

The knowing grin on Niall’s lips transforms into a wilder kind of excitement when they start to move, a sense of comfort lining the inside of his stomach as Louis takes the lead and slips inside the café. There’s something inviting about him – a lack of walls to break down that has left him treating Niall and Liam like old friends from the very start.

There’s a tug on his sleeve that stops him in the doorway, the door thumping against his right arm while Liam holds on to the left one, pulling himself close and muttering, “It was his idea, you know, to meet up so early. I was joking when I told him that I had time before practice.”

Niall snorts, overcome with affection for his friend, for this side of him that is so soft, and so genuine. “You’re fine, Liam. Think he’s just thrilled to meet you.”

“Oh,” Liam hums out, ever so oblivious to his own status, to the symbol he has become through hard work and dedication.

He’s the same when they get inside, when the barista’s eyes go wide with recognition at his arrival. It’s amusing to see, still, and ever so heart-warming to know that there are people out there that understand what kind of a man Liam is. People that see what he’s capable of, and know that he deserves every bit of their praise.

They leave him by the counter when they’ve ordered their coffees, and Niall watches him from the booth they grab by the windows, transfixed by the animated movements that go along with what he’s saying to his newfound friend behind the display of muffins.

“I kind of forget that he’s a public figure sometimes,” he mumbles to Louis, pushing his bag along the seat and shuffling in after it. It takes some adjusting to keep their knees from knocking together under the table, but eventually they’re settled; Louis’ interest the only thing left with a spark to it in the stillness of the room. “That he’s famous even when he steps out of the stadium, I mean.”

“I can tell that you’re proud, though,” Louis says, observant, or perhaps just finding parallels in the friendships he has with Ed and Harry. “You guys must be close.”

Niall gives a slight nod, running his fingers through his hair with no regard for the mess he makes of it as he tries to sort his thoughts out; word them properly for Louis to understand.

“I’d like to say that he’s like a brother, but I actually have one of those that I never see,” he reveals, glancing back over at Liam again, at the source of comfort he’s had ever since his family started to fall apart. “Mine and Liam’s friendship is nothing like that.”

He picks up on the silence, then, on the emotion that infiltrates it when it stays between them for too long, and he looks at Louis with a grain of fear that he might have said something wrong. That he’s been too personal, perhaps, or breached a topic that’s been bad enough to leave a sad look in Louis’ eyes and a tight purse to his lips, almost like he’s sealing them carefully.

Niall breathes in somewhere between the clatter from behind the counter and the force of Louis’ eyes when they’re aimed back at him again, and loses the beginning of whatever ice breaker he had planned when Louis steals that breath of his with his unguarded sadness.

“I left the city for a while,” he reveals. He’s quieter now, his voice softer than Niall’s heard it before to enhance the emotion and the nerves he’s baring. “Left my family behind as soon as things got rough for me around here. Mostly I just didn’t want them to see it, what I was doing to myself. What kind of brother I was turning into. It was easier to run away than get better.”

“But you’re here now, right?” Niall murmurs, treading carefully. “You came back.”

There’s a lack of details that makes it impossible for him to piece things fully together, but he can read the expression on Louis’ face; the regret that is lining his eyes and twisting his mouth around an exhale under the weight of Niall’s gaze. He doesn’t need to know what it was that drove Louis away, just that he came back. That Louis did the thing his own brother never bothered to do.

“I met my soulmate in London, about a year after I’d left,” Louis tells him, smiling slightly as he tilts his hand. There are curved lines that make up _Eleanor_ along the side of it, starting just under the knuckle of his pinkie, and his entire demeanour shifts when he looks at it. “She straightened me out enough to realize that I had to come back here when my granddad died. He was the only one in my family that kept in touch when I left. I would have hated myself if I never said goodbye.”

He looks up when Liam joins them, smiling gratefully at the coffee cup that is coming his way, but never faltering. Never hesitating to continue as he says, “I hadn’t even heard about Danny at that point. Hadn’t heard about anything, really, but I knew I had a lot of making up to do to a lot of people, and granddad had left me enough money to do that. To get the studio up and running and start from there.”

“It’s a good place to start,” Liam adds, with soft eyes and an even softer smile as he swoops in with the right thing to say, produced from something pure inside his chest. He’s never needed any context to be kind.

“We christened the place with a tattoo of him, actually,” Louis hums through a grin, the sparks back in his eyes as he gets up on his feet and twists his upper body. He’s rucking the layers of his shirts up a moment later, laughing at the baristas exaggerated sigh from the counter while he bares his back inch by inch until the upper body of a middle-aged man appears over the right shoulder blade, nestled in a mess of faded lines from older tattoos. “Harry’s good with portraits. It’s what he does, mostly, when he’s not doing removals. He just – he has a way of capturing personalities with the ink.”

Niall doesn’t know much about tattoos. He’s seen all of Liam’s over the course of their friendship, and he has tasted the lines of some that have adorned the people he’s dragged home from the pub in the past, but none of it has made him an expert on what’s good or not, and aside from the outline of Ed’s lion, none of them have ever caught his attention quite like this before. None except the one he’s trying to wipe off his own skin.

It’s like a photograph on Louis’ back, a detailed image that moves smoothly with every twitch of muscle, and there’s no room for confusion. No doubt kicking off in Niall’s mind to question the similarities between the man and Louis, because the slopes of their noses and the crinkles by their eyes are identical, and Niall doesn’t need a look at the actual photograph to know that Harry has done an amazing job with it.

He takes a long-awaited sip of his coffee when Louis turns back around again, when the conversation shifts slightly and Liam moves over to Louis’ side of the booth where they both can hover over the sketchpad, and he keeps glancing down the side of his cup to observe his new friend. Keeps trying to catch something in Louis’ expression that will explain why he decided to open up like that to someone he’s not even met a handful of times yet.

There was a limit to his words that kept Niall from gaining too deep of an understanding for what he has been through, but it was still a lot to share. It was still a big admission, and Niall supposes that the brief mention of his brother was enough to give Louis something to relate to. Enough to kick the first few words out of his mouth and send them flying.

He’s glad that it happened. Feels a lot of admiration for Louis as he warms his fingertips against the ceramic and tries to appear interested in what the pair across from him is doing so he won’t look like an excited puppy once the bell above the door chimes with the arrival of a new customer.

Harry’s got a white shirt on, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the waistline of his jeans sitting low over his hips where they can scream at Niall through the thin fabric of the shirt. His hair looks soft. His expression looks soft. Everything but his jawline looks soft in the morning light that streams in through the windows, his cheeks softly tanned and his eyes free from the tired lines that framed them the last time they saw each other.

And just like that Niall is painfully aware of the state of himself – of his undone hair and the stubble that is climbing up over his jawline. He could just as well be thirteen again, sitting in the back of the classroom with roses blooming on his cheeks to speak of his infatuation. Back then his attention always passed by unnoticed, though, which won’t happen now. Not with the way Harry actually repays him – with the way Harry’s staring right back at him as if there’s nothing else in the world that he could be looking for.

His grin is wide and lined with charm when he comes closer, snatching a prepared cup of tea from the counter as he goes, only to let his boots knock against the bottom of the seat when he reaches his target. Niall feels ridiculous as he lets his gaze travel up the length of his body; a bit lost for words when he retraces Harry’s features and tries to remember what it was like not to know them. The idea shouldn’t seem so foreign.

“Is this going to be a common occurrence, then?” Harry says in greeting, glancing briefly at Louis and Liam but coming back to Niall with a soft snap. An attraction rather than a force. “You hanging out near the studio?”

“Could be,” Niall muses, untucking his fingers from the ear of the cup just to have something to do. To have something to focus on that can shield the nerve in his tone and the childish excitement in his smile. “I live just around the corner, now. Moved in last week.”

“Really?”

There’s a chill to the air that washes over Niall when Harry slides in next to him; a leftover message from the wind outside to remind him that the city’s still waking up outside and that the heat along his cheekbones is entirely his own, run on emotion rather than sunshine. He breathes it in, the battling temperature and the somewhat familiar mix of products that make up Harry’s scent, and then he nods, bringing the cup to his lips so that he has something to smile against.

Harry doesn’t hide, just lets his smile shift in the open, as if it’s a work of art that is waiting to be observed. It looks carefully crafted when it moves around his words. Flawlessly executed as it frames a soft murmurs of, “Well, that’s great! Like I said, you’re welcome to drop in whenever you want.”

“Still have some sessions left to get through before I start dropping in unannounced, I reckon,” Niall reminds him, licking coffee off his bottom lip and pretending that he doesn’t notice how Harry’s gaze slips down to track the movement. Pretending that the moment isn’t enough to steal yet another breath from him as he pushes his left sleeve far enough to reveal the faded ink on his skin.

He regards the unspoken question in Harry’s eyes with a small nod, shifting his wrist into the familiar grasp of Harry’s hand to let him inspect the name. _His_ name, that isn’t really his at all. His touch is as gentle as ever, though, and his voice nothing but a soft hum over Niall’s skin and a subtle roar in his chest when he says, “Looks good, this. It’s coming along nicely.”

Niall has about fifteen playful comments to respond with, fuelled by the knowledge that the two of them work well on humour. A part of him is after that – that spark of amusement that flares so easily in Harry’s features when Niall teases him, and the pride that flickers more modestly in his own chest at the very sight of it. A different, slightly bigger part of him is still wound tightly around what Louis told him a few minutes ago, though, turning his curiosity into a full-blown desire to know more about Harry. To figure him out.

“You didn’t correct me,” he murmurs in the shadow of their friends’ excitement, leaning in an inch or two while he slips his hand back on the table, wrapping it around his cup once more. “When I assumed that Danny was your soulmate.”

“Yeah, well,” Harry hums after a moment, stirring up the relative silence with a contemplative tone as he adds, “I didn’t think you were wrong.”

He’s barely smiling, now, but he’s still the same man Niall’s seen over the course of the past weeks. The one he first saw behind the counter, tucked between two pages of a book, and the one who’s pressed a comforting hand to Niall’s every time it’s been twitching with discomfort, soothing him through the pain. The focus he usually has in the studio is flickering in his eyes, now, coming to life with whatever it is he’s thinking about, and it evokes a sharp spike of disappointment in Niall’s stomach. Leaves him breathless for a moment, thinking that he won’t find out.

“I think there are different kinds of soulmates. You know, family ties. Romantic bonds. And _that_ ,” Harry says eventually, using his finger to draw an invisible circle around Liam and Louis. “An instant connection – a special kind of friendship. It’s like they’ve always known each other on some level.”

The spike slips in an irrational way; tears at the inside of Niall’s stomach even though he is beyond sane enough to realize that him and Harry are nothing like that, and that it would be wrong of Harry to pretend otherwise. There is a tentative air to their developing friendship that Louis and Liam seem to have crushed with the soles of their shoes. A subtle push and prod of the boundaries, just to keep track of where they have each other. Once Niall has had time to mull that over and realize how healthy it sounds he suspects that the tear will heal itself.

For now he takes what he’s gotten – this piece of Harry’s mind that he didn’t expect to be given. It’s another step towards the big picture, something to work on to piece the man fully together.

“You said,” he urges, “back when I asked about it, that Danny was the one who found you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did,” Harry says, almost in wonder. “There was a point where I thought I’d never see him again, but he found his way back to me.”

He colours slightly; brightens with the memory as he sips his tea, and Niall isn’t so fazed by the silence that follows this time. Can’t feel upset when it’s obvious that he’s kicked something pleasant off in Harry’s mind, but simply revels in the comfort that is stirring between them, growing more stable every time they meet.

*

He’ll need to get a table for the kitchen. Something small that can fit into the corner, just so that he can pretend that he eats there every once in a while if anyone comes over. Other than that it’s only the lack of a coffeemaker that is disturbing the balance in here. He’s filled up the final cupboards and stocked up the fridge, so it’s starting to feel like a home.

“That used to do my head in,” his dad says. “You, havin’ your feet up on the counter.”

Niall curls his toes around the edge, mostly on instinct, as if Bobby’s words have the power to dig into his calves and tear at his limbs until they’re hanging off the side instead, but also to assure himself that the wood’s still there. That it isn’t about to crumble under the thick fabric of the socks he got from Sophia last Christmas; fuzzy ones, because she’d been sick of losing a pair of her own every time Niall had stayed over on the sofa.

“Would put me off, too, if it were anyone else doing it,” Niall says, exaggerating a little to make sure that his voice carries to the opposite counter, through the microphone and to his dad. The man is slightly blurry on the screen, caught on a bad webcam and sat in poor lighting in the familiar living room back home. Niall misses him badly. “But, you know. _My house, my rules_ , and all that.”

His dad snorts in response; leans in a little closer because he’s doubtful of the technology still, after all the years Niall’s lived away from home. “Have you settled in alright?”

“Yeah, it’s – it’s really good,” Niall tells him honestly, feeling more certain than ever after the impromptu get-together in the café this morning. “You’ll have to bring my guitar, though, when you come here. You _will_ come, right?”

“Course I will,” Bobby frowns, glaring at Niall on his screen instead of staring into the camera, effectively making the situation rather amusing to watch. “You couldn’t keep me away even if you tried, son. Have a couple of weeks off in September, don’t I? I’ll come then. Catch a game and some sun.”

Niall shifts a bit, wary of the tension in his back and shoulders, releasing a breath of longing.

“Hopefully it’ll be warmer by then,” he wishes out loud, once again flexing his toes and watching the shift of fuzzy white on his feet. There’s a bit of a turmoil in his chest – a detached bout of emotion rolling around in there, catching his thoughts and releasing them in disarray. “But you’re not – I mean, you always keep warm. Didn’t mum? ‘Cause my circulation’s shit.”

“Think her heart stole all the warmth from the rest of her body, actually,” Bobby muses, fond and soft where he’s sat too many miles away, moving slightly with silent laughter. “It must have needed it, in order to love a fool like me.”

Niall is an adult, these days. Can interpret sarcasm and read smiles, and understands his father better than his twelve year old self ever did, so he’s stuck watching the play of emotions on Bobby’s face. Analysing everything that goes on between the corners of the man’s mouth and wonders how he never caught on to it before – why he never truly _looked_. The sadness must have been there all along, every time he got halfway into a joke before he realized that his wife wasn’t there to hear it anymore. That he didn’t have anything but old memories of her to play back in his mind.

“Is something wrong, son?”

He trembles back to the present, to the shift from amusement to concern on his dad’s face – a steady layer of understanding in his eyes that can pick up on anything Niall gives him, silence included. When Niall breaks it, he does so clumsily. Feels like a puppy on uneven ground as he scrambles through the rush of realization.

“I didn’t understand what you went through – with mum. The pain you must have felt. And I – I’m _so_ sorry I didn’t help. That I didn’t see what you –“ he says, stumbles, chokes on a sob and fades out; overwhelmed by a wave of emotion that he didn’t see coming at all.

His thighs quiver with the way he’s pressing them against his chest, turning himself into a ball of everything that burns inside him, hopelessly thinking that he’ll be able to contain this storm, this seam that is about to burst open. His lungs are struggling because of it, wheezing their way through a fight with that disarray of thoughts that still lingers in the middle of his chest, and there’s no stopping the tears. No way of hiding the evidence of them when they stain his shirtsleeve a darker shade of blue.

“Oh, but you _did_ help, Niall,” his dad tells him, so intent, so desperate to get the message across and through and everywhere else it needs to go for Niall to realize. “You were half hers; kept her living. You and Greg – you’re my soulmates, too, yeah? No matter what happens, or where you go.”

Niall sniffs, then huffs out a wet chuckle under the palm he drags across his face, “Now you sound like Harry.”

“Like who?” his dad asks, looking proud in the aftermath of Niall’s whirlwind of emotions, with a crooked smile shining right through the screen to convey his adoration.

“A friend,” Niall murmurs, frayed at the edges and worn all the way through. He’s suddenly warm, though, all the way down to his toes. “You’d like him.”

*

The sky is muttering, though not under its breath. There’s been little to no wind brushing up against Niall when he’s been out this Friday – has just been the same, looming clouds hanging over his brief trips from one door to another. The thunder comes from faraway, just the way Niall likes it, but the air around him is thick to breathe in and heavy when it sinks into his skin, making his glasses slip down the bridge of his nose when he finally exits his car.

He’s been sitting in it for too long at this point, both of the front windows rolled down as he’s been reading through the last adjustments in the documents Liam has to sign before he leaves for pre-season tour in the morning, and he’s left hoping that the rain will hold off until he’s hurried from his parking spot to the studio. He doesn’t realize that he’s been holding his breath until he rounds the corner and feels as though his lungs will explode all over the pavement, clipped breaths and anxiety filling up the cracks beneath him as he shuffles the final steps.

“ _Mate_ ,” Louis says with feeling, greeting him with a frown and the air-conditioned tones of Otis Redding. “You look like you need a drink.”

Niall takes him in; the denim shorts and the threadbare t-shirt he’s got on, the wisps of hair that keep a cigarette in place behind his ear, poised and ready for his next venture outside. He’s the definition of a Friday night – an exhale ebbing out in the face of the weekend.

“Bit stressed, yeah,” Niall agrees, blinking over the frames of his glasses to get the world in focus as he shifts his bag off his shoulder. He puts it on the sofa opposite the counter, letting it watch the interaction as he shifts on his feet. “I’m fairly new in this business, you know? I’m just scared I’ll mess things up.”

Louis comes around the counter, plastic glove in his hand and a considering look on his face where he stops near the doorway, hovering in the middle of clashing music and the familiar laughter from inside the studio. He must be about to start on Liam’s hand, then, on the lines of the eagle he’d thrown together so effortlessly in the café the other day and insisted to put upon Liam’s skin before the team set off to the States, like waiting two weeks were impossible for the both of them.

_Soulmates_ , Niall thinks in something similar to Harry’s drawl. _Huh._

“I’d offer you a smoke, but I take it you’ve given up on those,” Louis ponders out loud, presumably remembering that exchange out on the sidewalk – the nostalgia that must have flashed across Niall’s features in the early morning light. “Or a drink, but _I’ve_ given up on those. And Harry refuses to keep anything in the house.”

Niall knows that alcohol thins the blood – assumes that it’s not much better to have it in your system whilst removing a tattoo and thinks, for a moment, that he could say something about that. Use it as an escape so that he won’t have to dive into the cracks this new bit of information has left him with. He’s not foolish, though. Isn’t fooling himself into thinking that he doesn’t want to know, or that he doesn’t care. He’s already so invested. Already adores how open Louis is about his past – how it only takes a few hints for him to give away so much.

“He’s a good guy.”

“The best,” Louis says, full of conviction and set to fight anyone who disagrees. “So, tea?”

Niall snorts, somewhat endeared by the sudden change of both tone and expression as Louis sways on the soles of his feet. He’s like a bundle of energy – the buzz of his gun personified where he watches Niall with expectant eyes.

“No, actually, I,” Niall starts, using the back of his finger to push his glasses along the bridge of his nose, letting contours blur until it looks like Louis is vibrating on the spot. “I should finish that work thing. Have to get the papers ready so Liam can sign them before he leaves.”

Louis nods, snaps the glove in place. “I’ll get started on Liam’s hand, yeah? Harry should be down in a minute.”

It’s less than that. A matter of seconds, really, because Niall’s only just gotten his papers back out of his bag and sat down with them when the colourful door behind the counter opens up. He can see the back of Harry’s head; the width of his shoulders where they’re shaking with silent laughter, and then he’s blinded by the smile that follows when Harry turns around.

“Hey. Sorry I’m a bit late,” Harry hums out, almost in harmony with Otis over the speakers. “Some of us like to take our time.”

He’s still smiling, brimming with whatever’s gotten him so happy when he takes a few steps away from the stairs and looks back at it, at the small figure that’s crawling down it backwards, one step at a time. And the happiness is suddenly self-explanatory, shoving at the stray bits of anxiety in Niall’s chest until there’s nothing but fond breaths battling in there, competing to bring the first real smile to Niall’s lips this evening.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice softer than he’s used to hearing it, somehow amplified by the sight of the trains on Danny’s pyjamas, and by the process the boy goes through once he’s reached the ground floor; wiping his hands over his small thighs and huffing with the effort he’s gone through. “I just got here myself.”

Harry’s smile shifts slightly when he aims it back at Niall, his eyes sparkling with leftover pride in a way that takes Niall’s breath away for a moment, his coherency going with it and leaving him with nothing but a mirroring smile to give back.

His trance breaks when Harry shifts closer, his attention naturally falling back to Danny, making his fondness slip right off of his lips in a greeting of, “Hey there, buddy.”

The boy cracks a smile, his shoulders tipping up against his ears as if he’s gloating in the attention, cuddling into his own contentment, and Niall’s never been prouder of anything he’s done before. Has never felt such a sense of accomplishment in his life, because not even Liam shone that bright when the signing was announced.

“Hi,” Danny replies, blushing softly as he speaks, “Hi, Niall.”

Niall blinks, but he doubts that the surprise is swept away when he fixes his gaze back at the boy, at the dimple he knows so well from another face and the excitement that lines a lighter shade of green than he’s grown used to. Once again, he’s at a loss for words, and once again it’s Harry’s movements that shake some sense into him. At least enough to look up and send a questioning glance up at the man who’s moving behind the counter.

“He’s been practicing ever since I told him your name,” Harry says, watching on as his son does a careful shuffle towards the sofa, to the free side of it where his curiosity will have room to roam. It’s obvious that Harry’s heart follows the boy’s every step. “Very particular about pronunciation, that one. Takes his time to get things right.”

The pride is like sunshine, streaming off of him so steadily that Niall’s emotions blossom faster than they should – faster than what he’d classify as healthy. He understands it, though. Can’t think of a single reason why Harry _shouldn’t_ have stars in his eyes where he’s standing, admiring, moving papers about aimlessly on the countertop.

In the end he fishes out an iPad from the pile, his fingers long where they’re keeping the device securely in his hands as he moves over, passing through Niall’s silence as if it’s an ocean to sail on, undisturbed. Niall still has his papers in his hands; fingers restless at corners that have gone a bit bent under the abuse of his fidgeting nature. Somehow he doubts that he’ll have read through the notes a final time before he leaves tonight.

“Was it _Cars_ you wanted to watch today?” Harry’s asking, crouching down in too-tight jeans without trouble, keeping his balance when Danny instinctively leans against him and confirms his choice through a nod against Harry’s shoulder. “Okay, climb up next to Niall, then, and I’ll start it for you.”

Danny does as he’s told, eager even though his climb is accompanied by soft grunts every time his hands slip against the cushion and send him sliding back down to the floor. His determination is admirable, his expression priceless once he’s finally twisted himself into a sitting position against the backrest, half a cushion away from Niall. The excitement is bouncing off of him when he finally has the iPad in his lap; thumbs small against the side of it, holding on for dear life as the film starts up.

“I have to set things up,” Harry says. He’s a bit louder, now, a bit more pointed as if he knows what a daze one will end up in when Danny is around. Niall reads the tilt of his head – matches his words with the connecting room and everything it holds. “I can bring Ed in here, if you’re uncomfortable. If you want to come with me.”

Niall shakes his head, clears his throat and adds a weak wave of his stack of papers for badly put emphasis when he says, “No, no, it’s fine. I’ll stay here until everything’s ready, unless you don’t want me to.”

“No, that’s not,” Harry starts, frowning slightly at his thoughts, at the situation. “I can see you from my station, anyway. But that wasn’t what I meant.”

Niall smiles at him, hoping that it’s enough to convey how undisturbed his feelings are, because he thinks that Harry has every right to doubt him. They’re still getting to know one another; still teeter on the edge between acquaintances and friends, and all Niall is truly sure of at this point is that Harry is careful with what he gives away. That he’s trusting Niall around his child is far from expected, and Niall’s not going to pretend to think that he’s not being watched every second that passes by.

“Alright, Danny, here you go,” Harry says, shaking himself a little, fishing for something in his back pocket and pressing it to his son’s hand; an angry shade of red peeking out in the gaps between small fingers while Harry leans over the boy to press a kiss to his head, and then he’s heading for the other room.

Danny’s left looking up at Niall with a smile on his face that is wide enough to reflect in his eyes as he holds the toy up for Niall to see, expectant as he waits for Niall to show the same sense of excitement, as if there’s nothing in the world that could be better than having _Lightning McQueen_ on screen and in his hand at the same time.

“Oh, _wow_ ,” Niall drawls, adding a sense of astonishment to his voice that has less to do with the toy car, but plenty to do with the boy that is holding it.

The happiness on Danny’s face tells him that it was the right thing to say; his words coaxing a giggle out of the boy that ebbs out nicely in Niall’s mind, erasing the day he’s had until nothing remains but this; the stream of chilly air against his skin, and the sparkle of excitement to his side.

It’s a distracting sparkle, just like a fire in the sense that Niall finds it hard to look away from Danny’s animated features, and the way he keeps pushing his toy back and forth next to his thigh, upon the bit of his seat that is empty between them. He’s making engine noises along with the film every now and then, teasing Niall’s smile into permanent residence with the way he loses himself in the story, and Niall’s already giving up on work. He sticks the papers back into his bag, closing it up and pushing a sigh off of his lips, sinking back into the seat to wait for the evening to really kick off.

Like Harry said, there’s a clear view from the sofa to Harry’s station, letting him know that Harry’s still moving things around, fumbling with the plastic wrap while he’s grinning at something one of the lads must have said in there. He can’t quite pick up their voices, not over the mess of sounds that the music and the film is making up in the room.

The crash of the toy against the floor is clearer, as is Danny’s reaction when he tries to fold himself over the iPad and gasps, “Oh _no_.”

He sounds like something out of a _Pixar_ movie himself, dramatic and high-pitched, though more endearing than anything Niall’s seen on telly before where he’s handing the device over to Niall and shuffling his way off the seat to save his car from the floor. The process is as slow as it were on the sofa upstairs when Niall first saw him last week, the boy moving down gently and keeping the toy in a firm grip once he fights to climb back up again.

Niall tries to make his actions just as gentle when he sets the iPad to the side, the characters continuing their dialogue on his right while he reaches a tentative hand out to Danny, just to make sure that the boy is okay with it, with _him_ , before he helps.

Danny gives a content sigh when he’s back on Niall’s level, closer now, and staying still for just a moment before the sounds of the film snatch him back; make him look around frantically before he determines the direction of the perky voices and heaves half of his body across Niall’s lap just to see the screen. The shyness is gone – the hesitation for this man that he doesn’t know disappearing in the shadow of a world of talking cars in a tiny town, and Niall keeps smiling. Feels amused, and fond, but most of all important in his tiny little role as a pillow for the boy.

A moment passes, a few minutes ticking away where Danny’s wrapped up in the story and Niall’s wrapped up in the art of breathing, trying his best to do so in a way that won’t be disturbing. He’s awfully aware of how Danny’s stomach is pressed into his thigh, awfully scared that the slightest twitch of his knee will knock the air out of small lungs and cause a catastrophe. It’s still a better brand of anxiety than the one he’s carried around in his chest all day, though, and it dissolves as soon as Danny looks up at him.

His eyes are bright again, searching for that same sort of reaction that will show that Niall likes the movie just as much – that he’s just as excited to be watching it. Niall’s all too happy to play along, twisting his features just a tiny bit further to mirror the boy’s expression and coax another amused giggle out of him, but the reaction is reversed. Danny’s smile dims; light brows furrowing over observing eyes as he pushes himself up, and for a moment Niall is sure that the boy is remembering how unfamiliar Niall is. That he’s realizing how wary he should be of this relative stranger he’s sat with.

Danny’s just moving, though, crawling up to sit on Niall’s lap with his frown aimed steadily at the bridge of Niall’s nose as he says, “Bad eyes.”

Niall breathes out a chuckle, watching the consideration on the boy’s face while small hands push against his cheeks; clammy fingers knocking against his glasses. “Yeah, I guess you could say that. That they’re a bit bad.”

Danny keeps studying him carefully, palms gentle against Niall’s cheeks as lines of concentration appear around the pout of his lips.

“Not bad,” he says eventually, entirely convinced by whatever he’s been thinking. “Pretty eyes. Blue.”

There’s something about the innocence, and the r that sinks away in the light tone of Danny’s voice. Something entirely sweet, entirely soft, and powerful enough to make Niall swallow thickly, blink against a sudden sting in his eyes, and ask, “You like blue?”

It makes Danny look down; urges him to retract his hands and clench them around the navy blue fabric of his shirt; the subtle background that the trains are floating upon. He nods, forceful enough that his little body sways on Niall’s lap, in the span of Niall’s hands on his sides, and says, “Blue’s pretty.”

And that’s the end of that. The boy climbs off of his lap, and Niall’s chest trembles with the force of his exhale, punctured by the fondness that just keeps on growing, keeps on blooming in the light of the kindness, and the pure place it’s coming from. He watches how Danny settles into his side, the right one this time, with the iPad drawn close so that he can see the events unfold on the screen, and he struggles to wrap his mind around what just happened; can feel his lips part around his unspoken shock, and gets it all confirmed when he realizes that Ed is looking at him with a secretive grin from the doorway.

“I see Danny’s found a new best mate,” he teases, eyes gleaming with something that Niall can’t define. Something bright and shapeless that Niall’s never seen before. It’s enough to make him uncomfortable, to make him take his glasses off and fumble with them as he scans the room in search for more observers. A larger number to feel embarrassed in front of.

He ignores the way Harry lowers his head as soon as their eyes meet – tries not to get affected by the grin Harry’s so obviously tucking between the floorboards where he’s fiddling with the armrest, because he doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean, either.

“Harry’s ready for you,” Ed continues when it’s clear that Niall won’t, still with that gleam in his eye and a twist to his mouth that makes Niall’s nerves feel tight beneath his skin. “I’ll keep an eye on the little one.”

Things around here are familiar, now. The sharp scent, the buzzing noises, and the flowing bouts of laughter. Even the chair he sinks down in offers a sense of comfort at this point, a reminder of what he’s here for, and what every session will lead him to. The Harry on his wrist is a cloudy grey at this point, but the one that is rolling closer is bright, sharp and in focus. Would probably cut right through Niall’s glasses, too, if he still had them on.

“I wouldn’t have agreed to do this tonight if I knew it’d cut your time with Danny,” he points out, rolling up his shirtsleeve to keep himself out of trouble, out of green eyes and attraction, because he’s still recovering from the leaps his heart took off the sofa a minute ago. Part of it is still left there, fallen between cushions and kept safe in Danny’s warmth.

“I know,” Harry hums. He sounds soft, undisturbed, as if he really does know. Knows that, and everything else that Niall has to offer. “I had a cancellation earlier, though, so we’ve spent most of the afternoon together. Went to the park, had dinner when we got home. And the studio is closed tomorrow, so I’ll have the entire day with him. It’s okay.”

Niall watches him move around for a bit; enjoys the routine of it all, and the expressions that go with it. The tilts of Harry’s eyebrows; the workings of his lips around an unspoken monologue of his thoughts; the steady wash of breaths that come in close enough that Niall can feel each exhale against his arm when Harry pushes it in place.

“He’s,” Niall starts, stops, swallows, “He’s amazing.”

Harry doesn’t give him the option to look away, then, locking green eyes with blue and making them scream of pride when he smiles. The lines around his eyes are beautiful, the tilt of his head endearing when he says, “He likes you.”

“I haven’t really done anything.”

“You have an expressive face,” Harry points out. “You’re calm, and you show that you care, and that’s enough for him. He wouldn’t have gone near you if he didn’t like you.”

His smile is honest even when he turns it away. A reassuring touch to emphasise his words when the subject drops beneath them, rolling away to be replaced by the whirl of everything else in the room. He’s wearing the same jumper that he wore during the last session; still stretched wide at the collar and showing off the fine scribble of _Daniel_ upon his collarbone. It’s not something Niall wishes to cover up anymore, not now that he’s learned about the boy behind the name, but he’d still like to brush his thumb over it, just to feel a bit of the heat that sparks Harry’s love for his son.

“Well, we covered my job last time,” Harry murmurs. “What about yours? Did you always want to be an agent?”

It’s becoming part of the routine, this, that Harry’s talking to keep Niall’s thoughts from the process; from the initial pain and the discomfort that makes him tense up in the chair. Harry’s hand is as warm as ever where it presses his wrist down, his thumb tracing familiar lines into Niall’s palm while he starts. Niall still has to talk himself out of the urge to lace his fingers around Harry’s wrist in return.

“I met Liam at football practice when we were, like, twelve,” he says, taking the bait. “We made these great plans, just like all kids do, to play for Barcelona and win all the trophies. But then I fucked my knee up.”

“You couldn’t play anymore?”

Niall shakes his head, gaze stuck on Harry’s fingers against his skin. “Not like I used to.”

Talking about it is enough to make his leg shift under a phantom pressure – a hazy reminder of the battle between morphine and pain when he woke up at the hospital. A wound across his knee, and a Liam by his bedside; adorned with a torn look of reassurance and concern to greet Niall back into consciousness.

“Liam offered to quit, too, to make it easier on me,” he continues, finding encouragement in Harry’s silence, in the touches of one hand that counter the abuse of the other. “I hit him over the head and told him we still had dreams to fulfil. That we’d make a career out of it together, somehow.”

Harry halts his movements at that; looks up with a Danny-related brand of fondness in his smile when he says, “And you did. You _have_. Not quite Barcelona, this, though.”

The sky has finally opened up outside, making angry drops slice through the air and splatter against the ground. Niall watches it unfold, the beating of water that can’t be heard against the window, the baited breath the sky is holding, waiting for another bout of thunder to unfurl in the clouds. There’s something similar happening in his stomach; a simmering of emotion that is threatening to reveal itself on his face and speak of how important Harry’s words are. How it feels like he’s glowing in the face of Harry’s acknowledgement.

“Doesn’t matter,” he tells the street, the weather, the storm within. “After everything he’s done for me it’s a privilege to stand by his side, now, and to see him so happy. The location really is the least important part of it.”

Liam laughs, then, brighter than lightning and filling up every inch of the room like the very purpose is to confirm Niall’s words – to show that he really is happy here, and that they’ve found their place. Niall glances over at him, at the easy smile on his face that overrules the gun against his skin, before he finally looks back at Harry again. At the soft hands and the familiar lines of concentration. Adds, “We might have lucked out when we ended up here, though.”

He considers it a miracle that he hasn’t surged forward to taste Harry’s smile by the time it’s finally over, when Harry’s rolling his chair a few inches back and taking his touch with him. That he’s kept his spine somewhat aligned with the back of the seat, his fidgeting to a minimum, and his fingers from grasping for Harry’s skin at every collision of their gazes.

“You hold it together better with every session that passes,” Harry tells him. He looks like a lot of things. Happiness, satisfaction, a bit of pride, all mixed together in the green of his eyes, and in the soft pink on his cheeks.

Niall’s running out of miracles at this point, stumbling over a sense of greed he’s never associated with himself before – a need for brighter colours and prominent reactions that makes him scrape the truth off his tongue and say, “No, it’s still you. You’re distracting.”

When the words are out he replaces them with air – keeps breathing in through paralysing anticipation for so long that he thinks his nerves may have frayed apart and torn holes in his lungs. Harry’s still for a moment, hovering over his chair on an interrupted mission to get to his feet before the transition starts. Before the shift from pink to raspberry red happens on tanned cheeks and reminds Niall’s body that he’s full of air and adoration; that he needs to breathe some of it out through a relieved smile as he watches Harry’s hasty turn away from the station. As he hopes, despite tattoos and better judgement, that this means something.

“Yeah?” Harry rasps, showing a hint of his abashed grin over a shoulder when he gets moving. “Not planning on coming in for a tattoo when this is all over, then? One you actually want?”

Niall doesn’t manage more than a noise in response; something that’s shaken loose from the bottom of his spine and that shivers all the way up to his throat, filling up the air between them and coaxing a delighted laugh out of Harry.

“Liam’s not complaining.”

“Liam’s not sensible enough to be scared of needles,” Niall shoots back, though he does stop. Does turn to give his friend another look, a closer inspection.

He doesn’t look bothered at all, sunken back in his seat with a blissful kind of happiness crinkling at the corners of his eyes as though he’s yet to realize that something’s piercing his skin. Too charmed by Louis, too wrapped up in conversation, too at ease with it all to care about the pain now, when he knows from experience that it’ll fade in a matter of hours. Niall finds it equal parts admirable and idiotic.

He also finds his way back to Harry, drawn by gravitation and magnetism and a pinch of infatuation that marks him a very different brand of idiotic. He feels blind with it, fumbling through spaces with no regards for corners when there’s Harry’s broad shoulders to focus on. Hard muscles under soft skin, badly wrapped up in stretched threads where Harry’s crouching by the sofa, by the miniature version of himself that is fighting heavy eyelids with firm determination.

“You’re tired, Danny,” Harry’s humming softly, thumb brushing at the boy’s kneecap, care washing over every other inch just from the way he’s looking at him. “Want to go up to bed?”

It takes a moment for Danny to react; for him to register Harry’s words and make enough sense of them to blink himself back to reality. He gives his dad an unreadable look through the slits of his eyes, exhaustion written all over his face, and mutters, “No thank you.”

Harry huffs out a chuckle, a fond breath that goes right over Danny’s head, but that squeezes tightly at Niall’s heart in ways he weren’t expecting. In ways he’s never even imagined. He’s never seen anything like this – such an unconditional love played out so smoothly, so unguarded. Hasn’t known a child as careful in his actions, or as soft in his way of speaking, but he boils it all down to Harry, to the man Harry is, and he doesn’t see how he’ll ever get enough of either of them. How he’ll unhook himself from this breath of fresh air he’s caught from out of nowhere.

“Well, I’m going to put you there anyway, mister,” Harry’s continuing, playing with his tone of voice and Niall’s heartstrings all at once, though he seems entirely unaware of it where he’s shifting the iPad out of Danny’s fingers and handing it over to Niall, patting down the cushions in search of the precious toy and passing that over as well, before he’s finally sliding his hands beneath Danny’s weight and hauling him up.

Danny’s sinking into the embrace like he’s red wine seeping into Harry’s shirt, fitting seamlessly along ribs and muscles, over collarbone and in the hollow of Harry’s throat. Finds a spot there to mutter against, more than half-asleep as he asks, “Daddy too?”

Harry’s response is nothing but a grumble, a vibration as they reach the stairs where there’s nothing left but a faint trail of the buzzing of Louis’ gun and the ever so perky voices from the film to keep them company. Niall tries to ground himself in the strange mix of it all, in the edge to the air and the give to his lungs every time he breathes it in, just to stop himself from saying something stupid.

He doesn’t know what’s happened in the film while he’s been gone; doesn’t recognize half of the cars that are rolling around on the screen or the voices that go with them, but finds comfort in the distraction they provide when Harry disappears down the hall upstairs. There is a rhythm to movies like these – an algorithm that has remained even though the technology has changed, and Niall is easily captured. Easily drawn back into a world where even the most unlikely scenarios appear logical. He can already see why the red car is Danny’s favourite.

“There is a hundred percent chance we’ll be seeing _Planes_ tomorrow, if you’re interested.”

There is lingering fondness in Harry’s expression; a lack of mockery in his tone even though it’s clear that he’s caught Niall smiling along with the unfolding story. He’s kicked his shoes off somewhere along the way – is exposing white socks that make him look ten times more at home and too approachable for Niall to think about.

“Those are the only two movies we watch around here,” he continues, moving past the army of toys that’s still spread on the living room floor, taking warmth and familiar scent with him until Niall feels dizzy with it, with want and fear and restrictions. He’s too welcoming. Too trusting with Niall’s instincts. “Gets a bit repetitive, but you seem interested enough.”

Teasing. The innocent kind, but still enough to make Niall’s chest seize a little with unwarranted hope – a belief that the fondness in Harry’s expression might not be fading. That it might have different roots, finding growth in the face of people that aren’t Danny, too. People like Niall, with all his hope and affection.

“’Course I am,” he manages to reply, less embarrassed than he probably should be.

Harry looks at him for a moment, considers him carefully, just the way he did the first time they met. There is a glint to his eyes these days, though. A spark of familiarity that has settled more deeply with every exchange they’ve gone through, and now Niall doesn’t shift uncomfortably under the attention. Doesn’t feel the need to glance away before his nerves split at the seams and make him feel like he’s doing something wrong, because he almost expects the grin that comes to stretch Harry’s lips in the end. The playful notion of, “ _Oh_. He’s already got you wrapped around his finger, doesn’t he?”

_You both do_ , Niall doesn’t say.

“Well, _yeah_ ,” he manages instead, because lying will get him nowhere. At least nowhere near the utter satisfaction that crosses Harry’s face and makes the fondness seem even clearer in the dusty light that’s left beneath the clouds outside.

“Good,” Harry nods, steps even closer. “I wouldn’t trust you if you walked away unaffected.”

The want finds room to grow in the mere inches that are left between them, in the warmth and the scent and the way Harry keeps looking at him as if he belongs here, now, settled in effortlessly over the past weeks. It’s too late for a reply, and too late to stop his instincts from taking over when he slides the iPad onto the coffee table, then his nose against Harry’s chin on the way up to brush their mouths together.

Harry’s still beneath his touch, his lips soft when Niall nudges them with his own, fitting their seams together to the sound of a sappy metaphor that Niall’s mind can’t quite get right in the midst of it all; of Harry and the taste of him that is too faint. A horizon to chase when the caution finally cracks under the warmth of Niall’s breath.

Harry’s hands are big – have a familiar weight to them that feels right on Niall’s chest, winding tight around ironed fabric and the nervous heat that flickers with every exaggerated beat of Niall’s heart. Hard and persistent, so frantic that Harry must feel the yearning of it against his fingertips when he tugs Niall closer. He’s pliant for a moment, parting his lips at Niall’s sigh of a request while he fingers the top button of the shirt lazily, languid in every motion in a way that lets Niall savour them all when he steals them; fold them up and tuck them between his ribs for something sweet to puncture his lungs with later, when he’s run out of Harry’s exhales.

Which he does, then, in a cruel twist of fate and due to an alarmingly fast recovery of Harry’s sanity. There is a swift change from playful fingers to resistant hands that push at Niall’s chest, forcing him back the few inches they just closed up. He gasps for a breath – for a lungful of realization that can spell out the mistakes that got him here, but doubts that it’s that easy. Fears that _all of it_ has been wrong since the moment he disregarded tattoos, children and facts, and took a dive right into his own desires. The forced mess of a smile that Harry is aiming at his chest now only confirms it, and the pain that it is tinged with is enough to break the rhythm of Niall’s heart. A splatter of regret in the wake of Niall’s touch that echoes in the blossoming heat on Niall’s cheeks.

“That’s – _fuck_ ,” he presses out, failing to make the additional chuckle sound anything but forced and awkward, but at least covering up that crack of his heart with the one of his voice. “Sorry, that wasn’t – _fuck_ , I’m going now. Try to forget that I did that before the next session.”

“But that’s – we haven’t booked it yet,” Harry tells him, the tense span of Niall’s shoulders that’s already halfway down the stairs. He feels worse when he hears it; the tight drawl, the low rumble. All evidences of what spit-slick lips can do to Harry, and subsequently leaving Niall with desire to hear more, know more, find everything out with the tip of his tongue.

He bites his lip for the rest of his descent, down the stairs and further into fantasies. Keeps his mouth shut with the firm belief that his silence is better than anything he could possibly say on his way out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said that the third part would be the final part, but... oh, well.

Niall doesn’t know when he lost the ability to control his own emotions, or why he’s suddenly let them crash right over Harry. Doesn’t know when things changed, or how it happened, or why it’s happening now. All he can do – all he does that night – is add all the negatives up and find a single positive. A lonely realization that this, what he’s feeling now, is bigger than anything he’s experienced before.

 _Love_ , the cracked beats of his heart tell him, and it makes him press his face and the whimpers of resignation into his mattress. Love for Harry, who hasn’t shown any interest back. Nothing tangible enough to set his hope to, just touches that have frayed him to the very bone and healed every burn all at once. Acts of kindness that were meant to put Niall at ease and make him feel welcome.

Harry never deserved a response in the form of a stolen kiss after all of that – should never have his breath taken away from surprised lips, because Niall shouldn’t have fooled himself into thinking that there’d been permission hidden in the smiles Harry had trusted him with. Now the regret is an ocean beneath his skin; a wave through his veins that builds up and crashes down hard every time the memory of Harry’s apologetic grimace crystallizes in his mind, complete with an image of the dying trust on Harry’s lips in the wake of Niall’s touch.

His eighteen year old self would have gone through a pack of cigarettes before lunch. Would have been breathing out anxious smoke over his laptop while he tried to figure out the best plan of action to get the final layers of the unknown Harry off his skin. He remembers, faintly, that there’s a studio in London that does removals, and there’s a voice in the back of his mind that tells him that there are other coffee shops, and other stores. That he doesn’t have to venture out around the corner at all in the foreseeable future.

He’s not eighteen, though. He doesn’t smoke, and he doesn’t sleep on the floor in his classmates’ dorms just to avoid the intimate details of what the guy next door sounds like when he’s fucking someone else, reminding Niall that the world is full of people that will discard him because of screaming ink. He’ll go back to the studio, soon. On Monday, preferably, to get the bag he forgot when he had panic stirring in his shoes and walked out without saying goodbye to the rest of the lads. He’ll apologize again. He’ll do what he can.

For now he drags himself out of bed, tense and tousled and a bit too warm, layered with lingering embarrassment that reaches all the way down to his toes, surprising them. They wrap nicely around the edge of the counter when he settles down in the kitchen, giving him a false sense of control as he perches with a cup of tea and tries to sort through his phone. Emails; a missed call from his dad; Liam asking him what happened, and a following text from Sophia informing him that Liam had signed the papers last night – that the bag’s still left with the splinters of his hope in the studio, not that she’s aware.

A third and final text from an unknown number, reading; _Do you like pineapple on pizza? - H_

He decidedly doesn’t read too much into it in a try to solidify some of that control his toes have given him, and just acknowledges through a steady breath that there’s no other H in his life than Harry, and quite possibly no one else in his life that would be able to confuse him so much by saying so little. The bewilderment settles restlessly over the mess of the morning’s emotions, in the tilts of his eyebrows, and in the question mark that finishes off his reply of _no_. Lying about the use of pineapple will get him nowhere.

_Good, ‘cause we don’t have any. Drop by around five, yeah? Danny’s already gotten his Dusty pyjamas out. - H_

Niall spends twenty minutes trying to figure out what a dusty pyjamas might be just to keep himself from overthinking. It’s easier not to with his hopes splintered at the bottom of his ribcage, but there’s still a part of him that is curious. A piece of himself that he has attached to Harry which hasn’t faltered at all, and he can’t deny the fact that Harry seems to be moving past what happened, or that it must mean that he values their budding friendship, too.

In the end he concludes that an animated, orange plane is more likely than Springfield when it comes to the Dusty in question, but mostly zeroes in on the pyjamas part. The silent emphasis that the evening is a small deal; a light-hearted film with the intention to please a two and a half year old, and a chance to rebuild some trust with the man that has invited him. He dresses comfortably after his shower; denim shorts and a long-sleeved shirt because the sticky heat parted with the clouds around dawn and has left a cleaner feel to the streets in its wake, a slight edge to the air to speak of new beginnings. He’s eager to fill every crevice of his body with it, breath by breath until the regret is centred in his chest and easier to deal with.

Harry invites him into the studio with an intimate smile that lacks traces of yesterday. He’s bright and open, and his murmur of _hi_ doesn’t catch on any lingering taste of Niall on his lips, but it does bring back a hint of mint to _Niall’s_ tongue. Something different than his own toothpaste; subdued, yet sharp enough to make the breaths in his chest feel explosive, like they’ll go off if Harry’s smile stretches just a tiny bit further across his face.

For a moment he wonders why he didn’t think of how painful it will be to spend the evening with Harry, or why he’s putting himself through it. Then he realizes, in the unfamiliar silence, that it’s down to the oblivious rhythm of his heart – chipped and fumbling through the aftermath of this morning’s realization, and reluctant to address the damage it can end up with.

It’s also because of Danny, who’s sat in the chair that still must have Niall’s imprints on it from last night, beaming with bright, excited happiness as soon as their eyes meet across the open space. An unspoken welcome that is so warm that Niall thinks that a bit of internal bruising might be worth it.

“Come on, peanut,” Harry hums to his son, door locked behind him as he moves towards the semi-hidden staircase. “Time to eat.”

Danny’s face clouds over, his lips twisting into a pout that tips his whole chin down towards his chest as he mutters, “Not a peanut.”

“ _Not a peanut_?” Harry drawls back at him in the most incredulous way, eyes wide and lips threatening to split with amusement and ruin the entire act. “What _are_ you then?”

The boy buys into it – is drawn into the act like water to sand and sits straighter in the chair, hands clasped tightly around the edge of the seat. “I’m _Danny Styles_.”

Niall watches him, the similarities he shares with his dad and the way they make his expressions look like tiny echoes of everything Harry’s done over the past weeks, and he thinks that there’s nothing else this boy could possibly be. No bond that could be stronger than the one that is wrapped up by their shared last name, but that bleeds through every interaction, through every loving look Harry shoots his son’s way.

“You’re _grumpy_ , is what you are,” Harry tells him, melodic with drifting laughter that coils softly around the conspiring look he sends Niall’s way. “If you don’t hurry up, Niall and I will eat _all_ the pizza.”

Danny gasps out a _no_ , jaw still stuck to his chest where he’s looking down at the floor with calculating eyes, already squirming his legs over the edge of the seat. Niall takes some notice of Harry’s retreating form, but mostly watches Danny in fascination, once again amazed by the careful nature behind all of his movements as he lowers himself to his feet. There are orange, somewhat familiar-looking planes on his trousers, and a bigger one on the front of his shirt, the background a soft green that makes his eyes seem brighter than ever once he’s slid to a stop by Niall in front of the counter.

“ _Hi_ ,” he breathes out, laced in delighted surprise as if he hasn’t been looking at Niall for minutes, now, sending that sparkling gaze up the length of Niall’s body as he twists his hands into his shirt. The matter of disappearing food doesn’t seem to be much of an issue anymore, and he’s too wrapped up in that delight of his to care about his dad’s retreating form on the stairs.

“ _Hi_ , Danny,” Niall says in a similar fashion, fluent in the same excitement. He crouches in front of the boy, takes in the curious green of his eyes and taps a gentle finger against his stomach, right between the eyes of the plane. “You ready to eat?”

The excited sparkles simmer down to a solemn breeze over the soft meadows in Danny’s eyes, but the intent is lingering in his nod, and in the determined stride he sets off on towards the stairs, “Yes, we go _up_ , Niall.”

He moves impatiently in front of the first step; a thrumming source of hesitant movements that show his consideration, his respect for the physical hurdles that get in his way and the lengths he will go to feel secure through his motions. It’s a louder version of what Niall saw last night; of the silent workings of Danny’s mind when he was perched on Niall’s lap, trying to figure him out.

Niall watches him for a moment, the way his arms shift uncertainly as if he can’t decide whether to reach for the railing or lean forward to crawl on all fours up the stairs, but he can’t handle the way his heart is swelling in reaction. He clears his throat softly in order to urge his fondness back in line, and raises his eyebrows in response to the wild look Danny shoots up at him, angling his hand in an invitation now that he’s got the boy’s attention.

“We go up,” is repeated in the same, decisive voice when Danny wraps his hand around two of Niall’s fingers – the familiar heat of his palm encompassing the ever present cold in Niall’s digits and tugging to get him moving.

“Yeah, up we go,” Niall agrees softly, and then they do. Under Harry’s watching eye from the top of the stairs they climb every step with careful movements, and Niall tries his best to navigate between the tremors of his heart and through the sudden fear he feels, nursing Danny’s trust like this. Reaching the second floor feels like his biggest achievement since Liam’s contract went through.

He doesn’t get to linger there, though. Doesn’t get to bury himself in the flaring memories of what he was doing here last night, or wonder once again if it’s a good idea to be back so soon. Danny’s tugging him along towards the kitchen, into a small space designed in shades of white and a scent so appealing that he’s suddenly glad he only had a bowl of cereal for lunch.

With his fingers still wrapped up tightly in Danny’s hand he guides the boy over to the table, towards the afternoon sun that is streaming in over it from the window and that catches on the bowls that are stacked in the sink, flour and bits of dough sticking to their insides.

Part of him isn’t surprised at all, yet he still furrows his eyebrows against the sight. “You’ve made it from scratch?”

“It’s easy,” Harry tells him, grinning over his shoulder. He’s got his hips pressed to the countertop, the back of a leg stained with white handprints to show where Danny’s pressed close while he’s been working on the dough. “And besides, I worked in a bakery for a while, until the owner realized that the person who’d been tagging their back wall all summer was me.”

“Really?” Niall snorts. “You were _that_ guy?”

“Me, Louis, Ed – we were a whole gang back then. A family, I suppose, for as long as it lasted,” Harry hums. His smile dims somewhere along the line, his voice gone tight by the time it’s drifting off.

Niall watches him turn, watches the matching tightness of broad shoulders under thin cotton and decides not to prod. He follows the call of attention from his fingers instead, the tight pressure of Danny’s fist as he tries to keep himself steady on his climb up the small step of his chair. The satisfaction that brightens his face once he’s sat himself down is slowly getting familiar, but the way it fills Niall with an echo of pride still leaves him a bit breathless – makes it feel like a bit of a loss when he finally gets his hand back to himself again.

He pushes the chair closer to the table, eyes the two plates that are on it, and asks, “Isn’t Louis around?”

“No, he’s gone home for the weekend,” Harry says, seemingly pleased with the change of subject. He’s turning back from the counter, a slice of pizza put on a plastic plate that he inches onto the table and cuts up with a matching set of cutlery, all while he throws brief glances at Niall over his son’s head. “His youngest sisters had a dance show today, he wanted to be there. Spend some time with them.”

The brief chat Niall had with Louis in the café is still clear in his mind. He remembers the sadness – the pained tone that seemed so foreign compared to what Louis has shown him before, and he remembers the man saying that he had a lot of making up to do once he came back to town. Niall’s still not aware of the details that drove Louis away in the first place, and he has no intention to pry, but there’s a part of him that is curious. He wants to know what the difference is – what it was that made Louis put effort into his family to keep them in his life, when Greg barely even bothers with a call around Christmas anymore.

He won’t dwell on it tonight, though. Gives his head a light shake and makes sure to zone back in on the hands above Danny’s plate, on the arms that encase the boy, and on the expectant brand of utter glee that adorns Danny’s face and makes his dimples look endless in the shadows that play along his features. When he looks up it’s easy to let go of everything else; to simply grin back and shift his eyebrows in a ridiculous choreography that makes Danny curl his shoulders up to his ears in sheer amusement.

“There we go,” Harry hums when he backs up, the smile on his face slightly confused as he’s missed out on the fun, yet framed with soft lines. Ones to show that he’s happy with what’s going on. “What does Daniel want to drink?”

“Hmm,” Danny hums in reply, tilting his head and the thoughtful expression that adorns it. “Bubbles?”

Harry’s shaking his head before the last syllable is out, failing to sound anything but fond when he brings out a bottle of fizzy water from the fridge and says, “ _Of course,_ buddy _._ Don’t know why I keep asking. What does _Niall_ want?”

He’s looking at Niall from under curls that have fallen across his face – a playful glint in his eye that matches his growing smile and makes Niall’s heart race just a little bit faster. He takes the bait, though, and hums just like Danny did, which makes the boy look back at him with wide, curious eyes and a serious expression to show just how important he deems Niall’s answer.

“ _Bubbles?_ ” he finds himself suggesting, tone just above a whisper as if they’re all in on a secret joke that is best expressed through another show of waggling eyebrows. Danny cheers, throwing his small fists into the air and cracking with melodic giggles, all while Harry beams in the background, and Niall feels his chest widen with joy.

Harry ushers him into a seat when he tries to help; moves the pizza to the empty half of the table and goes a bit red at the tops of his cheeks when Niall tells him how good it looks, how nice it smells, and how he’s still trying to process the thought of Harry in a baker’s hat. It makes the colour grow a darker shade – makes him look sunburnt and healthy in the most unfair of ways as he bites down on his own smile in an awful attempt not to look amused by Niall’s teasing.

“Wore a net, actually,” he mutters eventually, eyes averted, yet bright in the face of the sunlight. “My hair was longer, then. Had to keep it all away from my face.”

Niall swallows, cocks an eyebrow, and asks, “How much longer?”

He watches Harry push his fingers through the strands that have been teasing his eyes – observes the way Harry expertly shoves it up and to the side with fascination, wishing he were allowed to try it himself, just once. Maybe twice. Maybe all the time. It’s Harry who’s got the hair slipping softly through his fingers, though, and he’s tugging at the ends, gauging just where it ends and moving his hand another few inches downwards, fitting his index finger well below his collarbone.

“Took a couple of years to grow out,” he says, “and I kept it for a while – even wore it in a bun all hours of the day when I first got Danny, but then he realized how fun it was to tug it loose.”

Danny doesn’t react to his own name, too intent on shoving a piece of pizza around the plate in attempt to get it onto his fork, and Niall and Harry share an amused glance when the boy uses a finger to tip the food into place. He’s already run that finger through his fringe; made the short hair lump up with streaks of tomato sauce and stand in all directions on his head, but the strands remain straight through the abuse. Niall wonders if Harry’s hair ever was like that – if the weight of it at shoulder-length made the curls stretch out into waves instead, or if it curled like it does now. Softly, framing cheekbones and ears and jawline, enhancing green eyes and pink lips. He wonders a lot of things, really, but is terrifyingly sure that it was beautiful, however it looked.

“Got your bag, by the way,” Harry hums as an afterthought. A moment has passed, and he’s folded his leg on his seat, then sunken down on it all too gracefully. The smile on his face is of that same, gracious brand, edged with caution as it eases them into the new topic. “Liam didn’t know when you’d see Sophia, so he left it with me.”

 _Because I’d come by within twenty-four hours_ , Niall thinks. _Because you invited me, subtly._

“I didn’t think it was an actual invitation,” is what he says. An embarrassed tilt to a hoarse mumble as he forces his gaze to meet Harry’s – to stick to the lines that make up Harry’s face. “Or that you’d still want me to come after – _that_. Which I’m still – I didn’t mean to do it like that.”

Harry doesn’t shy away from the wild desperation that must line Niall’s eyes, nor does he meet it with the pity Niall was expecting. He looks conflicted, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth while he blindly pushes Danny’s glass to a safer distance from the eager hands that are making cars out of pizza and pushing the pieces in circles.

Niall gives him a minute, swallows thickly and wonders if he just went ahead and ruined the entire evening when he could have just gone along with the clean slate Harry had given him when he arrived. Kept his mouth shut and tried to forget how good it had felt, pressed against Harry’s last night.

“I _like_ you, Niall, I do,” Harry starts, tentatively picking his words and only averting his eyes once he stops to take a breath, to think. His shoulders slope, his eyebrows tilting with them, edging him further into his confliction. “But us – it’s not a good idea.”

“No, I know,” Niall blurts, unwinding with relief at the layers of emotions in Harry’s voice, yet fighting to keep the seams of them together. To stop their budding friendship from unravelling. “ _Shit_ , I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking straight. Didn’t consider your side of it, with your – with his mum and all.”

Harry looks at Danny, then. Lets his mouth curve up in the smallest of smiles while the emotions in his eyes go softer – the layers of them melting together to form something solid and unquestionable. Love of the everlasting kind.

“She passed away just over two years ago,” he says; a soft murmur that goes over his son’s head, that doesn’t disturb the innocence of his game or the soft noises he’s making along with his movements. “He was just a baby, then. Doesn’t remember her at all.”

“Harry, I’m,” Niall rasps, stops, then breathes through welling emotion. “I’m so sorry.”

It confirms Niall’s suspicions, but it doesn’t make anything better. He once again feels shame rolling in his stomach at the thought of his actions last night; of the kiss he stole along with the taste of Harry’s lips, and of the contact he made without the slightest bit of permission or consideration of what Harry’s background might be like.

 _I saw what it can be like up close – what it can do to someone to lose their soulmate_ , Harry said during Niall’s second session, and it’s been brewing in Niall’s mind ever since. He should have picked it back up last night. Held it close and used it as a shield against his wants until he knew for sure that they were worth acting upon. He had no right to assume, and it’s clearer than ever, now, spelled out for him in the line between Harry’s eyebrows that is left of his confliction, of the storm within him.

Two years is nothing, and the pain Harry feels must still be so real, so sharp. He said a lot through few words during that second session, about the hurt that is embedded in a loss like that, and now that Niall has more pieces to put together he doubts that Harry ever will move on – that he’s the kind of person that can let something like this go. Longing for him, yearning through all of this, is the stupidest thing Niall’s ever done.

It takes a moment for Harry to shake himself back to the moment, to the kitchen where Danny’s still humming through a mouthful of dough and cheese, with tomato sauce climbing his cheeks and the tip of his nose. When he does, though, he just forces a smile, nods vaguely, and gestures for Niall to serve himself, to get the dinner started. And Niall’s all too happy to shift the attention, to see Harry roll his shoulders and drift back to himself again.

*

“ _Daniel Styles_ ,” Harry’s grumbling, “at least take the toothbrush out of your mouth if you’re gonna run around.”

Danny’s giggles flow right after, soft and pure with excitement where they climb the walls and slice through the air, the doorway and whatever protection’s been left around Niall’s heart.

“Can’t chase me, daddy,” comes next, just as bright. “Can’t chase me!”

Harry’s groan is deeper, with a scratch to each syllable that makes a shiver ripple unexpectedly along Niall’s spine. The sight of him following his son into the kitchen doesn’t do much to settle Niall back into his skin, but it’s all pleasant. An echo of the peachy colours that are blurring the sky through the sunset outside, only warmer.

“I can’t _catch_ you,” Harry corrects through a huff, fitting an arm against the doorframe for the sake of leaning against it. His expression is full of forced lines that fail to convey any sense of exasperation, but Danny still seems to be buying into it. “I don’t _want_ to chase you, I want you to stand still.”

The giggles keep falling out; light melodies of them that get a bit muffled once Danny flings arms and toothbrush around Niall’s leg and presses his happy expression against the flesh just above Niall’s knee, hoping to hide in skin and short hairs. His whole body is shaking with laughter, thrumming with an excitement that makes Niall’s leg sway right along, and there’s little he can do but grin through the unrelenting flares of affection and raise an amused eyebrow once he meets Harry’s gaze.

“He’s usually good about this,” Harry grumbles, equally amused where he’s shaking his head. “Knows that he doesn’t get his dummy until his teeth are brushed, once it’s nearing bedtime.”

“Dummy?” Danny repeats, suddenly sombre as he tilts his head and sends a hopeful look up the length of Niall’s body. “Want my dummy.”

Harry snorts, raises both eyebrows at Niall in a triumphant way and says, “You can have it as soon as you’ve come along to the bathroom and let me brush all the little monsters away from your teeth.”

It coaxes a sigh out of Danny, but it also gets him to unwrap himself from Niall and push himself back a few inches, toothbrush held in the air between them on its way back to the boy’s mouth when he suddenly stops, eyes glazing over with thought. His free hand soon reaches back for Niall’s leg, pressing so gently that Niall barely feels it against his kneecap – small fingers trailing along the scar that runs across it.

He mutters something under his breath, brows furrowed in the same concerned fashion Harry’s have been in the studio, in reaction to Niall’s discomfort. Before Niall has the time to say something – tell him that he’s fine, that nothing hurts anymore – the boy is sinking down to the floor. He’s dropping the toothbrush to the side, and a moment later he’s huffing at his own leg, tugging impatiently at his pyjama pants in order to inspect the milky white skin of his knee.

“Nothing,” he says, with just a hint of accusation in his voice that makes Niall bite back something soft that is threatening to fall off of his lips. “Does daddy have it?”

Harry’s smile manages to look frail and indestructible all at once; conflicting emotions stemming from the same, unbreakable love that makes him look beautiful against the background of the setting sun. Bright and ready to take over when the sky starts to bruise in shades of blue and purple.

“Come on, you,” he hums, plucking the toothbrush off the ground, then aiming that same, unfaltering smile at Niall while he circles an arm around Danny’s middle and hoists him up as well. “We better find you a new toothbrush. And get some toothpaste on it.”

Niall is about to slip his hands into the sink and do the dishes when Harry eventually comes back, catching his wrist mid-air and curling warm fingers around it as he says, “No, you really don’t have to do that. Let’s just – leave it for later.”

He can hear noises from the living room; music of a grand scale starting up to announce the start of the film that undoubtedly has captured Danny’s attention and held him captive while his dad has moved onwards. His pulse serves as the backbone to it all; a drum in his ears and something wild and fierce running in his wrist, just beneath Harry’s fingertips that have merely spread out a little over his skin.

Harry’s watching his own digits, the slow slide of them and the reveal of the faded tattoo that hides underneath, paler than it’s ever been before. His expression is the same as the one Danny wore before; curious, with a bit of concern wedged between his eyebrows and lined along them. He’s familiar to look at, but he still evokes a blur of emotions in Niall’s chest, and in that pointed beat in his wrist.

“Do you think I’m doing the right thing?” he finds himself asking, hushed under battling shades of peaches and bruises, in the shadow of the cheerful dialogue that’s slipping in from the telly. “Removing him.”

Harry blinks down at his hand, at the pressure of skin against skin, licks his lips before he bites at the inside of it, his brows still furrowed over troubled eyes. It screams of hesitation, and Niall won’t have any of it, not when it comes to this.

“I obviously won’t change my mind at this point,” he adds, tracing back to their very first meeting when Harry was all about uncertainty, about whether or not Niall had made up his mind. “I’m set. You won’t sway me.”

Harry nods, seems to consider it for another moment before he breathes out slowly. “I haven’t seen any bad sides to soulmates apart from – from the loss of one. Haven’t met anyone who’s been unhappy with their partner or the lives they’ve lived together. But like I’ve told you before – I’ve seen what the _lack_ of a soulmate can do to someone.”

He’s let go of Niall’s wrist, but he’s also looked up. His gaze feels heavy upon Niall’s face, but Niall holds it, keeps it while he breathes in confidence, or strength, or whatever will get him through this once he finally averts his own eyes.

“My mum passed away when I was younger,” he reveals through an exhale, throat already tight. “It broke my dad’s heart, but I didn’t get it. Only really understood my own sense of abandonment and thought he felt the same thing. I was selfish, really. Didn’t realize what it was like for him until you said that, about losing a soulmate. Never really – never actually _tried_ to understand it.”

Harry’s got concern swimming in his eyes now, a sad, almost desperate brand of it that he isn’t afraid to aim at Niall. It laces around his voice when he speaks, too, hushed but firm. An unwavering burst of, “You were a kid, Niall, you weren’t _supposed_ to understand. There wasn’t supposed to _be_ anything _to_ understand.”

His words are soothing in a different way than Niall’s talk with his dad had been. Soothing a different part of him, something that just needed a bit of understanding. He smiles appreciatively, and finds that he doesn’t have to fake it – that it climbs easily under Harry’s attention.

“I met Liam a week before it happened, at football practice,” he finds himself adding, latching on to the emotion behind his smile and making it burst a bit wider in his chest, within ribs and skin that misses Harry’s touch. “My brother went distant in the face of it all, but Liam stepped right in. Filled the empty space with his unfamiliar presence and told me that everything would be alright, eventually. And I just… believed him. Even though they were clichés.”

“I bet it was the eyes that did it,” Harry hums, soft and gentle, armoured with the kind of devastating experience that lets him balance expertly between light and heavy to anchor the both of them in the moment, in the unspoken knowledge of what they’ve both lost. “His eyes are dangerous. Too kind not to be taken seriously.”

Niall is startled by his own emotions, by the rush of pride and contentment that wells up in his chest and makes him chuckle at Harry’s words, at the indication that he’s seen Liam for who he truly is. “They’re the windows to the soul, right? Isn’t that what the books say?”

“Not the ones I’ve read lately,” Harry snorts. He’s shifting, now. Easing himself back to lean in the doorway, glancing through it briefly. “But I suppose there’s some truth to it.”

His eyes are teasing, aimed at Niall with the kind of intent that begs for a reaction, a retaliation, something to get them rolling. Niall settles for a gentle shove along with a snort that sounds entirely too fond – his fingers spelling out betrayal where they’re merely brushing the skin of Harry’s arm, lapping up heat and soft outlines of muscle.

Harry watches it, the gentle friction of skin against skin, before he moves his gaze to connect it with Niall’s. His smile is smaller again, curved to match the tone of his voice when he murmurs, “Proving my point, aren’t you? Soft and comforting. Enchanting.”

The attention makes Niall’s eyes shiver – makes them break the contact as his cheeks fill up with a colour that must make the icy blue stand out even more than usual. They’ve only ever been compared to the sky before, and don’t know what to focus on now that they are aware of what they can convey – of how much of Niall that is embedded in each and every glance they aim.

Harry’s giving him a break, turning away and moving into the living room now that he’s successfully dragged Niall away from the pile of dishes, and Niall takes a few grateful breaths. Presses the backs of his fingers to the burning along his cheekbones and tries to stop his mind before it lapses into far-fetched dreams again. His reality is here, where he’s gotten a second chance, and even though Harry’s kindness is unfair, he won’t take advantage of it again. Won’t make it into something else and run with it.

Danny’s sat on the floor, just a few feet from the telly where he’s breathing out minty breath and wonder at scenes he must have seen countless times before. There is an unconscious twitch to his lips that matches most of the chirpy voices, and he doesn’t notice that he’s getting company, just twists his hands together in compressed delight and keeps humming along while Harry and Niall fit themselves on the sofa behind him.

They spend a while watching, absorbing colours and lines that create seamless movements to the sounds of familiar voices. Dane Cook, Niall thinks, and one of the Desperate Housewives stirred into a mix that no toddler will be suspicious of, but that definitely ruins the magic for his adult self. That makes his gaze wander to Danny’s form below the screen, positively radiating the kind of glee that _true_ magic is made of.

It’s wonderful to watch, and it brings a smile to Niall’s face, but it doesn’t brush away the weight of Harry’s gaze from the side of his face. It feels curious, settling on his eyelids and along the slope of his nose all while he does his best to ignore it, to look forward and let Harry gather that curiosity and make words out of it, a question that starts off with a gentle nudge of a sock-clad toe against Niall’s thigh to catch his attention.

“I get if you don’t – I mean, just tell me if you don’t want to talk about this, I’ll understand,” Harry says when green eyes get familiar with blue ones once more. He’s curled up in the opposite corner, his back against the arm of the sofa and his left leg spread across the expanse between them. Comfortable in his home, though tentative in the subject. “But how are things now, between you and your brother?”

Niall shrugs in response, lets his shoulders rub against soft fabric and leans further into his own corner, comforted.

“He met his soulmate when we went back to Ireland the first Christmas after mum passed away,” he reveals, sorting through memories. “And then he moved back there permanently the second dad had had enough of his attitude. We don’t talk much.”

“My sister isn’t all that present, either,” Harry offers in return, letting his voice echo against the bubble they’ve got around the sofa, muffling the speaking planes and Danny’s hushed excitement. “She’s got a better relationship with out mum than I have, and our dad… well, he’s not really around.”

“They’re not together?”

Harry shakes his head. “They’re not soulmates.”

His expression is oddly neutral; lines smoothed out and cheekbones screaming proudly in their absence, in the resignation that is circling the green of his eyes. He has pushed strands of his hair behind his left ear, has left a clear view of himself that Niall is eager to drink in while he hopes that this is just the beginning, the start of whatever Harry is opening up for him.

“They couldn’t make it work, despite the firm belief they shared when they met,” he continues, steady as he speaks, letting his eyes do all the trembling where they flick between cherished spots to assure him of his surroundings, of the safety within the walls that hold Danny close. “After I was born things kinda went to shit. They held so much spite for one another about the smallest of things. It’s always the small things, right? The forgotten balance of a relationship, the compromise. And it was like they thought it was a soulmate thing – like they would have understood each other’s needs better if they had each other’s names branded on their skin, but I think it’s just a – a –“

“A couple thing,” Niall chances, because this is it. This is why the soulmate thing hasn’t been _his_ thing. Because he believes in _love,_ and working things through. “Any couple.”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Harry breathes out, shifting his jaw a little, allowing a twisted grin to stretch his lips. “It didn’t exactly get better when dad met a woman with the name he’d been ignoring on his foot.”

The tone of his voice is strange, less melodic and entirely wrong with the way it makes the usual light in his eyes dim. The fading of someone who really has seen what the lack of a soulmate can do to someone, who’s been affected in more ways than one, but that still holds so much care for the people he still has close.

Niall admires him for all he’s shown; the cheekbones, and the smiles, and unfaltering kindness. They are pieces that he has seen that he’ll hold on to tightly – intimate ones that he thinks must make him special to be trusted with like this, seeing how long it’s taken Harry to ease his guards just a little.

His shoulders are easing, now, too, as he sinks a bit lower and leans his head against the backrest. The lines on his face are washing out once more, disappearing around the genuine tilt of the smile that grows as soon as Danny is twisting around to pop their bubble. All the light is flicking back on in an instant, and Niall is helpless; stupid enough to fall even harder, despite the nature of the things he has learned tonight.

“It’s Dusty,” Danny says, reverent and full of contagious interest where he pushes himself to his feet and scrambles for the empty spot under Harry’s leg. “It’s _Dusty_ , Niall.”

*

There’s a vague breeze in the kitchen, from the window Harry opened while they were waiting for the kettle to boil. The moon is spilling its light from too far away and the dishes are still piled high in the sink, fused together with hardened dough and stale sauce.

Niall, with his back to the mess and the breeze brushing at the nape of his neck, feels warm. Comfortably so, with his fingers pressed tight to the fading heat of his cup and the ghost of Danny’s hand still a fond memory on his thigh, left on denim and seeping all the way through. He’d been afraid to move again. Had been afraid to breathe and stir the boy from his trance, but the longer the film had played out, the better he’d settled in beneath the touch and its trusting nature – in the role as an anchor to remind Danny that reality would be left when the credits finally rolled.

Harry’s gaze was as soft then as it is now, watching him over the narrow space that is left between them, between the counters they are leaning back against. It’s soft along all of Niall’s curves, along each line of skin and disobedient strand of hair, showing no trouble to accommodate Niall’s presence in his line of sight. It makes him feel like he belongs here, in the kitchen and in Harry’s company. In the moonlight and the breeze that fails to budge the warmth the boys in this flat have wrapped him up in.

“I know that I’ve said this before,” he says, quiet over distant car noises from the outside world, his gaze bravely locked in place with Harry’s. “But he really is the most amazing boy.”

There are memories flooding through him, starting at that spot mid-thigh that Danny’s hand had cradled all through the movie, spreading like wildfire to each limb until his head is full of flashing images of Danny’s smiles, of his animated expressions that went with the plot of the film, and of the stubborn fight he’d put up before sleep overtook him. He’s fond of them all, of the personality that must only be starting to develop, and of the smile that is a smaller echo of the one that Harry is aiming right at him, now, small and soft and positively stunning.

“I’ve been lucky,” Harry murmurs, pressing soft words from soft lips against the rim of his cup, sipping lukewarm tea.

Niall shakes his head, determined. “No. You’ve – _shit,_ Harry, you’ve done so good. He’s like a mini version of you, full of care, and curiosity, and brightness. It’s all _you_.”

The expression he gets in return is difficult to read, made up of too many emotions to speak clearly. Doubtful eyebrows arched over searching eyes, conflict staining the colour in them in a way that reminds Niall of the expression he was pressing his lips against last night. Harry looks torn, as if he doesn’t know whether to believe Niall’s words or not, moving his lips in vague movements that still remind Niall of a sea caught in a storm, uncontrollable.

Maybe he’s thinking of trust, and how he keeps his so close while his son lacks suspicion. Or maybe he doesn’t think that it is any of Niall’s business, entering their lives and telling Harry how it’s been in his absence.

“I don’t,” Niall groans, squeezing his eyes shut in frustration, and in faint embarrassment. “I didn’t mean that I – that I _know_ anything, or that I have a right to tell you what your life is like, I’m not _that_ big of an idiot. Not really.”

“I didn’t think you were,” Harry assures, somehow hushing Niall’s inner turmoil with the vague stretch of his lips – the calming of a sea and the clearing of a sky, leaving hope to blossom. “Thank you.”

He lets his gaze search Niall’s face some more, perhaps still waiting for a crack in an armour that doesn’t do more than blush in the aftermath of Niall’s spectacular stumble over his own words. His flustered self must reassure Harry of something, though, because when Niall finally finds the courage to keep their gazes locked for more than a couple of seconds again, he meets something soft. Something warm that is gleaming with the reflecting moonlight, and that makes his knees feel a bit weak, suddenly depending on the supporting counter behind him.

Harry’s moving closer, sliding white socks over encouraging floor until his toes are touching Niall’s. It’s a surprisingly slow process considering how little space he had to close to begin with, but Niall still fails to settle into the motion, into any kind of preparation for whatever is about to happen.

Big palms settle gently at his jawline, ones that have only grasped his wrist before, and that pushed him away by the chest last night. Now they’re keeping him in place, brushing thumbs over his heated cheekbones while Harry centres them both in the moment, ever so careful.

Niall catches a shallow breath, wants to wish upon the drop of his stomach, only it’s real before he gets the thoughts right in his mind. It’s happening, coming true with the slightest pressure of Harry’s lips against his own, with the gentle nudge to fit their seams together and remain there.

He presses the mug to Harry’s stomach, wiped of any memory that it was there to begin with as he scrambles for stability, for something to keep him upright when Harry’s lips tease him away from reliable countertops, but then Harry’s sighing. Parting. Barely breathing as he murmurs, “Was that – is this okay?”

Niall blinks a few times, swallows as the lengths of Harry’s eyelashes come into focus, faint shadows against moonlit skin whenever his eyes flutter closed. They make words difficult, but Niall rasps a few out anyway, “As long as you think it is.”

It makes Harry breathe out across Niall’s lips, hot and teasing, giving Niall hope for more when he mutters out a, “Yeah, it’s – _yes_.”

“Think I definitely owe you another one for last night, then,” Niall manages, blindly disposing the mug behind his back while he wraps his free hand in the hem of Harry’s t-shirt. Tying them together, pulling Harry closer.

Harry’s lips are soft, slow and deliberate as they drag over Niall’s. It’s careful without being chaste, and Niall doesn’t know how anything can be better than this, than having Harry under his fingertips, Harry’s bottom lip between his own and the soft brushes of thumbs still spoiling his cheeks. The warmth of Harry’s mouth, and the taste of tea upon his lips once he finally licks across the seam of them, is all too much. Touches shooting through his body like fireworks that burst through his bones, making his ribcage tremble with the very force of its downfall, beaten apart by irregular breathing.

Then, Harry’s tongue against his. Slick, languid kisses to put Niall back together while heat curls from the bottom of his stomach all the way to his throat, soothing every imagined crack in every rib. He curls his fists tighter in Harry’s shirt, rubs the back of a thumb against the jut of a hipbone and savours the heat, the firm lines, and everything else Harry’s willing to give him this time. Hitching breath and curious fingers that are getting lost in Niall’s hair.

“Hmm,” Harry manages, leaning back the number of millimetres required to let the sound climb past their lips. They still brush deliciously through every letter. “Soft.”

Niall kisses the leftovers of the sweet tone with curling lips, high on touches. “Shouldn’t be. I’ve been dyeing it since I was sixteen.”

The confession is a mistake that makes Harry peel his lips away again, doing so with a soft noise that makes Niall’s toes curl, warm and giddy so close to Harry’s. The green of Harry’s eyes is a near black shade in the evening light, though wide and warm with interest as they trace the contours of Niall’s face, assessing every feature.

“So the roots,” he starts, winding strands around his fingers, seeping warmth into everything he touches. “You’re a brunette?”

Niall nods slowly, feels a flutter in his chest in reaction to the soft gaze Harry’s addressing him with, and acts on it by turning his head and pressing a kiss to the inside of Harry’s wrist. The pulse beneath his lips matches the one in his ears, irregular, and as hopeful as the sparks of surprise that light up Harry’s eyes when he straightens in the brackets of Harry’s hands.

 _Surprise_ , as if Niall’s desire to do that hasn't been written all over his face since they met.

Harry tugs gently, presses his fingertips to Niall’s scalp and murmurs, “I like it.”

For a moment Niall struggles to understand what it is he likes – if it’s the dye, or the roots, or the fleeting kiss he pressed to Harry’s skin. Perhaps all of it, if the way Harry eagerly catches Niall’s lips again is anything to go by. A beautiful language to get fluent in, under moonlight and on encouraging floor.

*

They only exchange a couple of text the following day. A picture of Danny’s devastated expression at the realization that Niall wasn’t left the morning after, and Niall’s response of five different emojis to translate the heartbreak it causes him. He doesn’t want to push further than that, certain that Harry needs some space to process things because he knows that this – _them, whatever they are_ – is a big change. That it must be difficult for Harry to navigate through what he’s been through and what is going on right now, connecting it all and coming to peace with it.

The memory of Harry’s hands on his chest the first time they kissed, pushing him away with a pained expression, still flickers in the shadow of what Saturday brought them, and Niall knows that Harry very well may change his mind at any moment – think it’s too much too soon and decide that he’s not ready. Niall doesn’t want him to think that he is forced to do anything, even if the kisses were the best anyone can possibly have shared with another human being, ever.

By the time Wednesday rolls around, the silence has added up to a flutter in Niall’s stomach. A nervous energy that Sophia laughs at over the sushi she brings around to his office, and that only feels a bit more manageable once they’ve spent the entirety of his lunch watching videos from United’s practices and sent mocking messages to Liam about the starstruck expression he aims at all his fellow teammates. By the time he’s heading to his afternoon session Liam’s just woken up across the world, and there’s a steady stream of outraged replies filling up his screen when he pushes into the studio, making him greet the room with a grin.

“Well, hello there, sunshine,” Louis drawls, sweet and slow like syrup over the counter. He’s got his chin in the cup of his hand, his left eyebrow arched in a perfect balance between mocking and caring. “Liam says you’re being mean to him.”

Niall feigns innocence, badly. “I’ve no idea what you’re on about, mate.”

It makes Ed snort from his sprawl on the sofa, shirtless and pale everywhere his skin’s not covered in swirls of ink. He’s as relaxed as ever, eyeing Niall like he’s someone to appreciate. Someone that stumbled into the studio and ended up fitting in, but Niall thinks that he may be projecting. Turns his gaze slowly to find Louis’ eyes sparkling with glee as he mutters, “Good lad.”

Niall pauses for a moment, allows himself a look around and sees Harry at his station, moving about in a familiar pattern that does nothing to show that he has noticed Niall’s presence. He must have, though, seeing how today’s music is turned down so low that Niall struggles to identify it.

“You both look busy,” he teases, giving Harry a bit more time. He sinks down next to Ed and settles into the familiarity of the place, of the company. “Is it casual Wednesday?”

Ed huffs and elbows him in the ribs, gesturing at his own chest as he says, “I’m wearing the most expensive shit I own. Gettin’ myself all pretty, aren’t I?”

There’s a retort spoken in Louis’ voice, something about how _yeah, well, it’s not like you can look any worse_ , that doesn’t manage to break through Niall’s focus. It’s gotten caught by the image on Ed’s chest – reeled in by lines that no longer frame pale expanses of skin, but that have colour seeping in from the bottom of the outline. The mane has slowly started to come alive under Louis’ hands, now playing in the rise and fall of every breath and every sarcastic comment that is thrown in retaliation to Louis’ jokes. It’s nowhere near done, but it promises something beautiful.

“Like it, do you?”

Niall registers the comment, the slight intimacy of it that means that it is directed at him, and manages a slow nod, still inspecting the new layer, the simplicity of it that still brings so much life to the artwork. A moment later he’s rudely pulled out of his trance by a pinch to his bicep, blunt nails digging into the skin and coaxing a yelp out him.

“What the fuck?” he glares, challenging the satisfied expression on Ed’s face while he arches away from it. “What was that for?”

“You looked like you were changing your mind,” Ed quips happily, “so I thought I’d check your pain tolerance. We could do something small on your shoulder to start you –“

Niall shudders, Louis laughs, and Harry cuts the sentence off before it reaches its end, muttering, “Leave him be, Ed. You’ve been crying for Louis to stop for the past hour and a half.”

He doesn’t look as amused as the rest of them, even though the corner of his mouth is twitching; pulling upwards as if it’s a reflex whenever he’s in the same room as his friends. The flutter in Niall’s stomach is urging him to press his lips to that corner, just to remind himself of what it tastes like, but there are still limits here. Feelings to consider, and people watching that might not be supposed to see anything yet, soon, ever. He’s left on the sofa, lengths away, and with a shudder still fading along a spine that is slumping with concern.

The banter keeps flying somewhere past his head, going back and forth between Ed and Louis even when it fades under the gaze Harry finally locks with his. It’s an acknowledgement, finally, held under twitching eyebrows that are asking Niall to come along.

“I’m picking Danny up from nursery after this,” Harry says when Niall’s coming up at his side, tone almost normal. “It would be nice to get there a bit early.”

Niall considers him for a moment – voice, expression, posture – and decides not to prod, that whatever’s going on is something to leave alone for now. He wants smiles, small or wide or any kind Harry will give him, just so that the longing in his bones will be soothed. Wants something familiar to cling to that is more personal than the shiny floor or the way the chair feels against his back when he sinks into it, because not even the furrow between Harry’s eyebrows is the same at this point. More pinched – controlled the way his lips are in the pout he aims at Niall’s wrist.

“Has he really been crying about it?” Niall tries. Gentle, because he’s different in turn, in reaction. Perhaps trying too hard already.

Harry snorts, more air than sound but his smile is there, lighting him up in slow-motion, and his hands are as warm as they’ve always been when they press to Niall’s skin.

“More or less,” he says, glancing up for just a moment. “He’s not as tough as he likes to think.”

The points of contact, along with the heat of touch and that smile, are enough to dislodge something in Niall’s chest, allowing his ribcage to expand around a breath that has been stuck in there for minutes, shrinking him up to a ball of worry.

He relaxes as Harry goes through the motions; watches the familiar routine of it all while the flutter creeps up to his chest and syncs with the beat of his heart. Content, here, with Harry’s features on display for him to drink in again, even though they’re less animated than he’s used to seeing them.

The pain is worse this time around, sharper and harder to breathe through, almost as if the name on his wrist can tell what’s going on and is clinging to his skin, to his heart and what it fits to. He hisses, squeezes his eyes shut against the room and breathes through the sensation, hoping that it will get better, all of it.

Harry’s thumb is tracing familiar paths in his palm, round and round to the rumble that rips from his chest, working low from the base of his throat. He’s there when Niall looks back up, more solid, more himself as he blinks slowly and says, “I know, Niall. I know, but you’re doing good, it’s going fine. Just have to breathe through it, yeah? With me.”

It’s a different approach than the easy chatter he’s kept up during the past sessions, more intimate and entirely breathtaking as it pierces the pain and settles in Niall’s mind. He does his best to follow the instruction, the easy rhythm of Harry’s exaggerated breaths that suddenly take up so much room, so much sound. They become everything, battling on the war zone on his wrist and inside his veins.

There’s comfort to find in the slow exhales, in the way Harry seems to lose himself in the rhythm of them, too. The frown on his face is less tense, now, and far more similar to the pinch of focus and concern that has hovered over Niall’s arm in the past. His touch is warm, and his cologne is familiar, and Niall aches with the want that courses through his bloodstream and beats beneath the pain.

He watches carefully, gathers breath and the pitch of his voice in the shadow of banter that drifts from Louis’ table, and says, “I think you may have been right, about soulmates. How there’s different types.”

“Yeah?” Harry urges, hoarse and distant with concentration.

Niall hums in confirmation. “Sophia has apparently been writing about Eleanor’s designs on her website for months, but they haven’t gotten in contact until now, when Liam and Louis put two and two together and introduced them. They’re meeting up in London this weekend, some fashion thing.”

He’s not as invested as he should be, but he knows that Sophia is good at what she’s doing – that she’s popular on social media, and that people take to her words like water. She’s responsible for everything in his wardrobe, fuzzy socks included, but he knows that there’s more brilliance to her than her fashion sense, and he can’t imagine what she’ll manage if she collaborates with Louis’ girlfriend. World domination, probably, which doesn’t seem all that frightening.

Harry smiles, a small breakthrough of sunbeams. “It’s a small world. Nice to hear that they are finding each other in it, though. Settling in.”

Niall wants to ask what it will take to settle _him_ ; the tension in his shoulders and expression that is keeping him from smiling like usual. Soft and unguarded, always loosened from the controlled grasp Harry’s got of everything else in his life.

There’s nothing to say that won’t be full of worry, though, and Niall doesn’t want to stumble through a reassurance, or ask whether something is wrong – whether _he_ did something wrong, to cause the edge between them. He takes the soft few instructions to breathe and clings to them throughout the session instead, hoping, because that’s what he always does in hopeless situations, and he refuses to look into Harry’s eyes and believe that this is one.

Not that he gets the chance to think during the moment their eyes meet once the session is over. One moment Harry’s there, piercing green with the ghost of a familiar smile around the promise to book a new appointment over the phone, and the next Niall finds himself left alone by the station, watching Harry’s back as he heads for the stairs to go upstairs.

“Niall, hey,” Louis tells him, too soft. “Don’t take it personally, okay? He doesn’t let people in.”

Niall can feel himself frowning, more sad than confused because he _knows_ that. Figured it out early enough and knows better than to wish that he’ll be an exception just because Harry kissed him softly enough to make his knees go week last Saturday.

Louis works the gun against Ed’s chest for another moment before he leans back, brows furrowed with something, some emotion that Niall fails to put a name to.

“Harry forgave me for leaving town, back then. Took me back with open arms and said he was proud of me for sobering up, but he hasn’t forgotten about it,” he continues, brushing the inside of his wrist against his forehead, swiping hair away from the skin. “He still has his shields up, and he needs time in order to put them all down for someone new. Maybe a sign to know that someone’s waiting.”

It’s not a foreign concept – not something that hasn’t crossed Niall’s mind already. He’s known that Harry needs space, and he’s ready to give Harry as much of it as he needs, because he _understands_. Understands that the loss Harry has suffered has left traces that won’t go away, and that he’s got a whole lot more to protect than himself these days. He wouldn’t dream of hurting either one of them.

Harry comes back down the stairs a moment later, beanie over previously ruffled curls and the spark of a purpose in his eyes, ignoring the men in the adjoining room as he rushes out of the door. Niall startles forward, desperate once more.

“ _Harry_ ,” he pleads, halfway out the door. It’s raw and quiet, though it must carry with the breeze and latch on to Harry’s shirt, because it makes him stop. “Are you regretting it? Is that what’s happening? ‘Cause we can forget about it, if that’s what you want. If that’s – I just don’t want to lose this. _You_. I like spending time with you.”

Pushing the offer past the lump in his throat is as hard as pushing his feelings aside, but he _is_ frighteningly desperate; fingers flexing uselessly around everything that seems to be slipping out of his grasp. Friendship, happiness, a home away from home nestled in green eyes and everything they’ve seen.

The door slips from the wedge it previously found in the curve of Niall’s body, in the jut of his hip and the bone of his shoulder. Its thud is dull, but feels like a promise. Something to set him off, to make him move into the calculated look Harry’s aiming at him, towards the spooked shiver of the pupils that follow Niall’s every move.

“ _No_ ,” Harry blurts. A rush of breath, startled out of him in the midst of a headshake, suddenly just as desperate where he lurches forward and repeats the word. He’s fitting his hands around Niall’s biceps, then a quick, firm kiss to Niall’s lips. “No, _sorry_. It’s just – it’s been a long time. Since I liked someone. And it’s – Niall, it’s _terrifying_.”

He looks faintly embarrassed even though the sun’s shining bright enough to make his blush seem golden. Torn between actions and emotions, struggling to fit his gaze to a particular spot along Niall’s body. It flickers against the base of Niall’s throat; skittish, curious, all while he nibbles on his bottom lip, scratching along the remains of his confession and everything it held that went unspoken.

“You do that?” Niall finds himself asking, stupidly. He’s heard it before, over pizza and cherished fragments of their lives that explained why they are a bad idea, but after this session he needs the confirmation. “… like me?”

“Since about halfway through your first session, yeah,” Harry concedes, sliding his hands down the lengths of Niall’s arms, then fitting them easily to Niall’s hips. “Was a bit… _suspicious_ of you, at first.”

Niall snorts, lets Harry’s fingers wander under the hem of his shirt, assuring themselves of skin, of Niall’s presence as if the pulse in the tips of them is racing with the realization that the two of them were crumbling a little. That Niall saw something to be worried about.

“I could tell, back then,” he murmurs, though he doesn’t need the breeze to carry the words. They’re close enough to whisper, to talk through touch alone, and Niall thinks back to the sceptical looks he received that first time they met. Then he thinks about the things he’s learned since then, and can’t help but slide a hand over Harry’s chest, collarbone, and throat. He stops at the back of Harry’s neck, keeping him in place in turn. “You still have every right to hesitate.”

Harry watches him carefully, though not the slightest bit calculating anymore. His hair’s soft in the sunlight, light in the breeze, and his expression spells out the happiness Niall longed to see; makes up a spark of pride in Niall’s chest that rivals everything Danny has caused him lately. He smiles as Harry tilts his head; smiles as he fits their lips together; smiles as Harry forms an amused _what_ against his lips that he’ll never be able to respond to properly.

“Wanna, like, come over to mine some time, then?” he asks instead, calmed by Harry’s words and the lips they fell from, scratching his fingertips against the nape of Harry’s neck. “Start a movie without talking vehicles in it and spend it kissing?”

Harry nods against his lips, then kisses them for extra confirmation, or perhaps because he can’t wait to get started.

“Is tonight too soon?” he mumbles. “Could let Louis corrupt my son for an evening.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Manda, for continuously supporting the insecure mess that I am.

Harry shows up with a bottle of water and a smile that is beautiful enough to blur any lingering worry that Niall has carried around throughout the evening. He’s leaning casually against the frame of the door when Niall opens up, tracing non-existent lines in the wood and all in all looking like he belongs in a romantic comedy.

“Bubbles?” he offers, wide-eyed and amused by the memory. “I’d bring wine, or beer, but I don’t really drink, and I didn’t –“

Niall wraps gentle fingers around Harry’s wrist and tugs that smile closer – kisses the nervous tilt of it until he can feel Harry’s lips part with a content sigh under his touch. A huff of air that turns into a soundless laugh when Niall hums into the kiss.

“Just you is good,” Niall assures him, in case the touches aren’t enough. “I’ve… missed you.”

The confession lifts easily off his shoulders, but it seems to land in the lines of Harry’s face, weighing the corners of his mouth down in a pained frown, a burst of guilt in eyes and voice when he says, “I’ve been an _idiot_ , I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have –“

“ _No_ ,” Niall cuts in. “No, no, don’t apologize. Not for this. I’m not mad about this, just about you. Which is why I’ve missed you. Now come inside so I won’t have to be scared to let go of your wrist.”

Harry, in turn, shakes himself loose and catches Niall’s fingers between his own just before his hand can fall to his side, tying them neatly together while he closes the door and locks them up. And it’s like he’s coming home for the hundredth time, fitting in seamlessly in every inch of a flat that Niall still struggles to settle into at times.

He’s lean limbs and soft curves, with an appreciative gaze that makes the furniture look just a bit more comfortable, and Niall doesn’t quite know how to be an extended part of him. Feels clumsy and square-shaped in the heat that is washing off of Harry’s body in one steady stream.

“You ate with Danny,” he finds himself saying, floundering until Harry rubs a conformation over his knuckles. “Won’t offer you food, then. Was he okay when you left?”

Harry grins. “Louis hasn’t seen _Cars_ in, like, four days, so they were both _ecstatic_.”

The sarcasm is there, dripping off Harry’s words, but Niall struggles to see how anything repetitive can be awful if it’s done in Danny’s company. The boy is the most entertaining human being Niall’s ever known, and he isn’t ashamed to think of how little time it took him to fall in love with that unabashed curiosity that runs through everything Danny does. The fact that he can watch the same story about the same cars over and over again and still be grateful every time someone turns it on again is simply adorable, and judging by the warmth in Louis’ voice any time he mentions Danny’s name, Niall’s not the only one who thinks so.

“Right.” Niall shakes himself, admires Harry’s features in the faint light that spills in through the living room windows. “We’ll have to put my telly up on the wall if we want to get excited about anything cinematic. I, uh – I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

He feels a bit embarrassed to admit it, trembling slightly beneath the shade of pink that is climbing up his neck, and it doesn’t get any better when Harry aims a wolfish smirk his way and gives his hand a tug that makes him stumble into Harry’s chest. It’s firm under his free palm. Broad and muscular; a home to borrow for however long Harry intends to keep him wrapped up in the compassing warmth.

Harry’s hand is warm at the small of Niall’s back, too, sliding in place and holding him steady while his eyes soften in the proximity, in the contact both of them are refusing to break. The smirk is still there, though. Open and honest, full of promise in a breathtaking kind of way as he murmurs, “You’re all the excitement I need, trust me.”

There’s an ease in the way he’s speaking that has been there since their first meeting. A rhythm to their exchanges that always made Niall feel at home in their conversations, settled in the flickers of joy in his chest. It pushes a chuckle out of him, light and fond, curling up in the fist of his hand in Harry’s t-shirt as he tugs him in for another kiss.

Their lips fit seamlessly, now. Familiar but hungry for more where they press and slide in their own rhythm; unspoken but just as easy as everything else they’ve done together. Niall doesn’t know where the bottle of water went, but he’s grateful for the pressure of Harry’s hand on his back, and for the way the other one’s untangling from their hold to move to Niall’s jaw, tilting his head just right.

Niall finds just enough room between them to slide his hand to Harry’s shoulder, beyond the slope of his neck to get to his hair, running like silk between his fingers until he stops to tug at the tips. Harry moans in reaction, deep and rumbling, making it easy for Niall to lick into his mouth and steal the noises right off his tongue. He doesn’t manage to keep the pride away from his lips, and Harry huffs in retaliation, pulling him that final inch closer as if it’s a punishment to touch from knee to chest.

The torture of it presents itself a moment later, embedded in a slow grind of hips and a friction between zippers that makes Niall choke on his breath, gasping against the bow of Harry’s upper lip. The smirk there is delicious enough to brush everything out of his mind, though, enhancing every shiver that is running through his body until his toes are curled up with anticipation, nudging Harry’s on the plush carpet.

“Bedroom?” Harry rasps out. “You haven’t showed me your bedroom.”

It’s not something Niall would have suggested, still too spooked by Harry’s behaviour this afternoon to take the lead on anything anytime soon, but he’s all too eager to go wherever Harry points. Too enthralled by the thunder of Harry’s pulse beneath the hand he still has pressed to Harry’s chest to deny him a single thing.

“Yeah,” he nods, eager and clumsy, sliding his nose against Harry’s in the process. “Biggest mistake of my life, I reckon. Come on.”

He pulls Harry along by the grip of the t-shirt, navigating blindly over the carpet, the threshold, and the wooden floor in the hallway. The door to his bedroom is open, greeting him harshly when Harry backs him up against it, and then they stop there. Explore without fumbling interruptions and far more tongue while Harry hitches a leg between Niall’s thighs and presses forward. The pressure is enough for Niall’s eyes to slip shut, heavy with arousal and the desperate need to commit every scorching touch to memory before he forgets his own name.

“Bed?” he offers, breathless but full of hope. “I have a bed.”

Harry smirks against his lips in reaction to that, too, grazing his teeth against Niall’s bottom lip before he releases it with a hum, a satisfied noise that doesn’t match the width of his pupils. His cheeks are flushed and his hair is a mess where Niall has fisted it, yet he’s still the most gorgeous thing Niall’s ever seen. There for Niall to touch, finally, allowing Niall’s gaze and hands to wander aimlessly all over him even as he eases them away from the door.

He gets them onto the bed in a surprisingly smooth manoeuvre, careful with his hands and knees as he crawls up the length of Niall’s body and settles over restless hips. The resumed pressure is even better in this position; Harry a warm and solid weight on top of him with the control to grind down just right, just enough to draw gasps past Niall’s lips and swallow them whole.

Niall, in turn, braces his fingertips against the denim of Harry’s jeans, pushes his digits into covered flesh of strong thighs and feels the way the muscles shift whenever Harry moves on top of him. He’s warm and intent, a steady force of careful attention that responds to each noise that works its way out of Niall’s throat.

The slick drag of their lips is still new – still a dream coming true that is making his mind go fuzzy at the edges, cutting everything out that isn’t Harry’s mouth on his and Harry’s hands at the hem of his shirt.

Harry’s fingers are as warm as the rest of him, slipping beneath fabric to drag against the skin above Niall’s waistband, then apart and up to sprawl over hipbones, where his thumbs are tantalizingly slow against the jutting bones. They press a promise of more into the flesh there that resounds through Niall in the form of an impatient groan, effectively breaking the kiss.

He sucks Harry’s bottom lip into his mouth before another satisfied smirk has the time to settle on it. Harry retaliates by a purposeful roll of his hips and a swift move of hands to pop the bottom few buttons on Niall’s shirt open, leaning back from Niall’s lips for the first time since they reached the bed.

He’s – _Christ_ , Niall thinks – he’s gorgeous. Roses for lips that have leaked out to his cheeks, flushed and intent where his entire torso expands with the force of his breaths. Shallow huffs on an open sea, ready to build up a storm and crash right over Niall. The coordination of his fingers is amazing given the forecast, making a quick ascend along the row of buttons until he can push the open sides of Niall’s shirt apart.

The noise Harry makes is a lot of things. A drink of mixed surprise and interest that tinges his eyes a darker shade of hungry while he bites down on the petal of his bottom lip. His fingers are back on skin, reverent where they span out to map every inch of Niall’s abdomen, measuring each bit of flesh as though he’s set on spreading his interest equally, adoring everything he touches.

“ _Chest hair_ ,” he mouths, made up of the heated air of a rushed exhale, from a mouth that only closes when Niall trembles with silent amusement underneath him. He quirks a defensive eyebrow and adds, “ _What?_ You’re always buttoned up to the collar when I see you, how was I supposed to know?”

Niall squeezes Harry’s thighs affectionately, tilts his head and the smile on his face and tells him, “I have to be, for work.”

His silent laughter has already ebbed out to a shiver beneath Harry’s hands and the path they’ve wandered along his sides. There’s enough pressure to them not to tickle, but so much desire in their heat that ripples of goosebumps spread in their wake, coursing upon skin and inside veins until his spine is arching off the bed, his hips pressing up against the delicious restraint of Harry’s weight.

“And I like it. The way the shirts hug your shoulders – the stretch of fabric over your chest,” Harry assures, rumbling softly, assuring his hands of skin. His thumb is so light that it barely catches on Niall’s nipple. “I like this, too, though. All of you.”

The sincerity is thick, blanketing every shivering part of Niall along with the look in Harry’s eye that is impossible to shy away from. Appreciative in an entirely different way than it had been with the furniture in the living room. It’s wide open and latching on to everything it comes across, searing Niall into his memory.

 _It’s been a long time_ , echoes in Niall’s mind. A long time since Harry liked someone, and possibly since he let anyone past enough of his shields to allow them this sight, these touches, and all of this trust. Niall is going to tremble out of his skin before he fucks any of this up. Will give Harry as much time and touch as he wants and hope that his heart doesn’t beat his rib cage apart under the gentle fingers that draw circles over the crime scene.

Harry’s thumb presses more deliberately against his left nipple, then. A slow rub that sends spikes of interest through every nerve in Niall’s body and cuts off any thought that still lingered in his mind. All that is left is the dull thud in each of his fingertips – the pulse of _want want want_ that is pressed so tightly to Harry’s jeans that there must be angry red marks beneath the fabric, upon delicate, enticing skin.

He’s had enough time for shallow breaths, now, releasing one thigh in exchange for Harry’s chin as he fits a gentle finger to it; tilting him up and urging him closer to bring their mouths together once more. Nothing about it is delicate and savouring anymore – led by desire and a frantic scrambling of Harry’s hands below Niall’s navel, fumbling for the button and zipper he finds there to get Niall’s jeans open.

“No, not me – _off_ ,” Niall grunts, uselessly brushing his hands along Harry’s front. “ _You_. The shirt. _Off_.”

Harry manages to make his snort sound both attractive and cocky, pressing noise and soft lips to the line of Niall’s jaw before he leans back, hands already reaching for the hem of his shirt. “Lose your English, did you?”

“Among other things,” Niall shoots back, jumping while he still has ground in the form of a black t-shirt to land on. “Such as my sanity, breath and the blood in my fuckin’ head.”

The shirt goes and he loses his footing; freefalls in the sight of golden skin and the sensation of a pointed roll of Harry’s hips that enhances just where all his blood is rushing to, as though they’re both not entirely aware.

Harry is – _holy fucking Christ indeed_ , Niall thinks – _so_ gorgeous. Sculpted and colourful, measured in broad shoulders and a slim waist with lean, defined muscles tying his torso together. They’re parts Niall’s only been teased with before; expanses of skin and delicate lines that have been kept secret by loose cotton and worn wool.

The time for Harry to look cocky would definitely be now, but the sounds of amusement have stuck to the stubble along Niall’s jaw, and everything that is left in Harry’s expression is soft and heart-warming. Fondness seeping all the way from his eyes to his fingertips when he presses two of them to Niall’s cheek and says, “There’s still some left. Always a bit of pink lining those cheekbones. Beautiful.”

Niall tugs Harry close and muffles the fragile noises that slip out of him against Harry’s lips; slips his hands up along Harry’s sides and back, keeping him close while the kissing grows sloppy. A bassline of mingling breaths and soothing licks against the sting of bitten lips, while Harry’s grinding steals more thoughts from Niall’s mind. There’s just them, now, greedy and grateful all at once, fitting curves to admiring palms.

Harry distractedly treks back to Niall’s stomach; teases fingers through the trail of hair that leads down to the bay of the open zipper and shuffles backwards with his fingertips hooked in belt loops, peeling denim in his descent.

The air that rushes into the abandoned space is warm; a collaboration of heavy breaths and intimate touches that enhances the flush on Niall’s skin, but that still feels cold as it washes over him. Frozen compared to the way Harry’s skin felt against his.

He’s light without Harry’s weight on top of him. Feels like a living blood sugar crash where he’s shivering in the not-cold, inside his own skin, as if his bones have shook loose and are knocking about without the anchor of Harry’s hips against his own.

Lonely, perhaps pathetic, his mouth acts out and demands, “No, don’t _go_ –!”

Harry, still right _there_ and attached by the curl of fingers in a leg of Niall’s jeans, looks up from a frame of interested curls around his face with the brightest smile Niall’s seen. A blinding mixture of happy emotions embedded in dimples and displayed on rounded cheeks, but mostly just shining from glazed eyes, _there_. Here. Not going anywhere, and confirming it with a trail of rosy kisses pressed to the inside of Niall’s knee, down to his calf.

The fingertips manage to rescue Niall’s foot from captivating fabric and proceed to the other leg with much less finesse, working to an annoyed assortment of noises pressed by contrastingly soft lips to Niall’s skin until Niall takes pity on them both – _impatient, throbbing_ – and kicks himself free at last. Steals the trick of a raised eyebrow from Harry’s repertoire and feels his chest swell with pride at the sight of Harry’s crumbling expression, at the laughter that brightens the room.

Harry’s smoother with his own jeans. Performs a practiced choreograph for Niall to watch from the support of anticipating elbows while his cock twitches at the sight of those soft curves and fine lines; muscular thighs and calves that go on forever; white socks thrown carelessly in a growing pile of clothing on the floor, and then Harry’s home again. Crawling back onto the bed and crashing under the pressure Niall applies to his shoulder, rearranging them both.

There’s a collarbone Niall’s wanted to taste since he saw it – since before that, probably, given the hollow longing in his bones that is only starting to fill up now, with the scent of male heat and reverent touches. He sinks into the line of Harry’s body and lets his mouth wander down to Harry’s chest; uses lips and teeth and tongue on a nipple while he rolls the other between happy fingers until the noises Harry lets out start to sound just the wrong side of desperate.

They turn into soft giggles as Niall continues his descent, airy little chuckles in reaction to Niall’s stubble in the valley between Harry’s abs, in the line that dips from between his pecs and ebbs out in the trail of coarse hair below his navel. Niall hides his smile in it for a second, collects himself just enough to make sure that his teeth are intent on their goal when he grazes them along Harry’s hipbone.

Harry’s hands are light over Niall’s ears through it all; fingers soft and encouraging against his temples, along for the ride. They’re the same ones that pushed Niall away over a kiss, once, now full of trust under the dancing gaze of sparkling eyes, and Niall’s never been more grateful to be let in anywhere before. Has never felt so warm in someone’s presence.

When Harry reels him up for another kiss he’s happy to go, clumsy like a puppy in his quest to get up there, to get the soft swell of Harry’s bottom lip between his own again and taste the happy curve of it. He lets his hand trail from the mattress, keeps himself quivering over the impressive lengths that make up Harry’s body as he brushes along the elastic of Harry’s boxers, traces the nondescript letters along it until the tip of Harry’s cock stops him.

Wet already, peeking out from fabric and kept in place against Harry’s stomach. _That_ impressive. Mouth-watering; the red sea on Niall’s tongue, parting for the whimper that tears its way out of his throat.

It takes a particularly pointed bite on his lip from Harry’s part to remind him why he ever climbed up the bed in the first place – a deepened kiss to show just how happy he can be here while works his hand along the line of Harry’s cock.

“Fuck,” Harry presses out, like an echo of Niall’s thoughts. “Your _hand_. Your – _ah_ – fucking _you_.”

“Maybe later,” Niall mutters, just before he eases that impressive size out of taunting boxers and suppresses a groan. “Just wanna watch you for a bit. See that flush rise along your throat.”

Harry curls fingers at Niall’s ear, presses lips to the corner of Niall’s mouth and pants, “I can do things with my throat that are far more impressive than that.”

His smirk is once again obvious against Niall’s mouth, and his words shoot like comets along Niall’s spine, through his bloodstream and into muscles that tense up reflexively. His hand tightens around Harry’s cock and precome dribbles out in reaction, slick for Niall to spread with his thumb, all of Harry so responsive under Niall’s touch that he’s struggling to keep himself sane.

He won’t need much. A hand on his cock, at most. A few strokes and a whisper of his name in Harry’s delicious drawl, all of which he’s holding off, keeping Harry from attempting because he _does_ want to watch. Wants to see Harry unravel before he loses himself to sensation.

His gaze is intent, drinking in every inch of that golden skin and the layer of sweat that is making it shine; the raspberry swirls on top that dance with the force of Harry’s cut-up breathing. The noises Harry is making are unintelligible, falling off of swollen lips in breathless heaps while he fights to keep his eyes open and aimed on Niall above him.

“ _Look at you_ ,” Niall hums, daring a grind of his hips against Harry’s thigh, earth-shaking friction against his neglected cock that makes the shards of his breath catch in his throat, his eyes fighting to keep their focus. “Fuckin’ incredible.”

Harry whimpers again, snaps his hips up into Niall’s hand in a desperate chase for a release that’s right there, beyond the edge Niall’s pushing him along with the press of a thumb against the head of his dick. Wet, slick movements in a sloppy pace while Harry bites his lip an angrier shade of red.

“ _Niall_ – I’m gonna – _ah_ ,” Harry gasps out, and then he does; tenses up and trembles apart through thick spurts of come that paint his stomach and Niall’s hand. A display of that full mouth thrown open with the most beautiful sounds coming out of it in cracked bursts that fill the hollows of Niall’s chest where his breath should be.

Niall strokes him through it, languidly, until the noises sound too wounded, too high-pitched, too much of everything. His hand is sticky and his cock is leaking in infuriating boxers but Harry’s there, blissfully sprawled with delicate eyelids shivering over hidden eyes, and Niall can’t believe that he gets to see it. Touch it. Have it, for now. The very thought makes his chest ache just as badly as his cock, and he makes a needy sound in the back of his throat. It would be embarrassing, if it weren’t for the way Harry’s lips curl up in response, as if the noise is the only thing capable of cutting through his daze.

“Handjobs,” Harry huffs, hazy and wrung out, “aren’t supposed to be that good anymore.”

He’s cracked one eye open; amused and sparkling yet again, enhancing the faint appearance of his left dimple. His voice sounds amazing and Niall’s dick twitches for attention – shoots demands through the entirety of Niall’s body until his palm presses down over wet fabric.

He won’t drag it out anymore – has suffered through the beauty that shone through Harry’s collapse and is still just a few strokes away from leaping off that same edge, that same drop of pleasure. He slides his hand under fabric and gets a proper grip on himself, familiar thickness sliding easily through the spilled signs of arousal while he drops his head to Harry’s shoulder; sweaty forehead against heated skin and encouraging scent as he works his length in hurried movements.

Harry’s hand is boneless against his hip, encouraging the best it can while he nudges Niall’s head with his nose, looking for a home for his lips in the warmth of Niall’s mouth. He kisses languidly, deep and filthy while his fingers dig uselessly into trembling skin, and Niall doesn’t have control over anything. Lets Harry claim his mouth while he fucks his hips forward and fights frantically to get to that edge and jump after Harry

“I have a talented throat, I said,” Harry tells the corner of Niall’s mouth, petulant. “Wanted to use it on you. Taste you.”

“Oh, _god_ ,” Niall groans, sputtering through an unsuspecting chuckle and catching a glimpse of those full lips, that tongue that is licking over them and creating an image of what _that_ would look like, feel like, as it shook his world. He doesn’t need his name whimpered by Harry’s voice – comes with a flood of images and Harry’s fingers digging into bone, cursing in languages he didn’t know he’d ever learned while Harry shakes with delight beneath him.

“You’re actually,” Niall manages on an inhale, choppy and baring little air to help him through the ebbing flashes of white-hot arousal that zing through his entire body, still. “You’re _mad_ because you didn’t get to suck my dick.”

“And because of the handjob,” Harry offers. He’s grinning, now. Full on and bright like the sun. “It was a good one. _Fantastic_ , which is the point. I’m not fourteen. There are cooler things.”

Niall, tilted all along Harry’s side with a leg carelessly fitted between Harry’s, finds the energy to smash a hand to Harry’s chest and tweak a nipple. He’s delighted with the outraged cry it earns him.

“I _said_ fantastic,” Harry reminds him, eyeing the streak of come that lingers in the wake of Niall’s fingers; painting the red traces of Niall’s mouth around the bud in splats of white. A mix of them both, left there to the sound of their familiar banter. They’re alright.

Niall pushes himself up on an elbow, leans in and lets Harry lean up to close the final inch and kiss him. It’s soft, now. Tender, wrapping Niall’s heart up in velvet and soothing it after all its hard work. He presses a hand to Harry’s cheek, keeps him still for another few pecks before he exhales over those bruised lips and drags his smile along Harry’s jawline, burying it in the crook of Harry’s neck.

“Think we could use that water now,” Harry murmurs, stroking a wide palm down Niall’s side. He detaches himself through slow motions and slips his boxers off his legs before he goes, leaving Niall tingling with persistent want. When he comes back he’s got a flannel alongside the bottle of water, and a smile on his face that is so soft that it threatens the velvet around Niall’s heart.

“How do you looks so – so –“ Niall asks with a lazy, angry, exhilarated wave with that same, damp flannel over Harry’s abs when he steals it, letting it hover over the amusedly jumping skin over taut muscle. “What the hell do you _do?_ ”

Harry grins up at him, sprawled all over the mattress again, with his hair fanning prettily over one of Niall’s pillows.

“Do you have any idea how many times a day a two year old wants to be picked up and set back down?” he asks through a snort, arching his back the tiniest bit off the mattress once Niall starts to clean the mess off of mentioned, muscled art. “Besides, there have been a lot of – not lonely, exactly, but _eventless_ – nights, after Danny’s been put to bed. I’ve watched a lot of at-home workout videos on YouTube. Also, yoga.”

Niall leans down to kiss the nipple that he never got a taste of before, quick and clumsy with giddiness at the realization that he _can_ , that he’s allowed to, then grounded in the moment by the hand Harry fits in his hair, by the fingers that scratch kindly against his scalp.

They trade flannel for water and Niall lets the bubbles tease the roof of his mouth, sparks of elation bursting against his tongue and the traces of Harry that lingers upon it. Something to consider.

He says, “You implied, over dinner, that it was stupid of you to think that Danny would want anything else to drink.”

Harry curls long limbs and soft curves upon the mattress, and watches Niall with content eyes. “He rarely wants anything else. Milk, in the mornings. And apple juice, but only when Louis is drinking it, too. I think he’d sodastream everything if he knew how to work the machine.”

“Danny, or Louis?” Niall snorts, then adds, “Maybe they have, when you get home.”

Harry responds by curling closer to Niall’s side; a pointed notion to show how content he is to stay right where he is for now.

*

Daylight breaks in quietly in the morning; curious to see how they’re doing. It comes in warm beams and splays over the mattress, settling in strands of Harry’s hair and along the curve of his waist, and it’s all on display for Niall to look at. Summer dancing upon soft skin, in the invisible traces that Niall left there hours ago.

He’s warm below the duvet and the protective heat of Harry’s body, held in place by limbs that feel delicate in the mist of sleep. They’re his to care for until Harry’s awake enough to control them again, and he watches them intently. Watches all the limbs and every line that is visible above the covers; the rise and fall of Harry’s chest and the parted lips that let the breaths out against Niall’s skin.

Stunning, every part of him. Impressive in every setting, raising a child and caring for strangers, helping them deal with their losses and step into their futures. Warming Niall up from the inside and making him feel like he truly belongs somewhere for the first time since he was twelve.

Niall runs his fingers over everything they can touch; cheekbones and hair and jawline. Watches the faintest of smiles that lingers at the corners of Harry’s mouth, and considers the stillness of his own bones. The way they are settled, fearless, despite the fact that he’s competing with the love Harry holds for a ghost. A lost soulmate.

He hasn’t addressed his worries of not being enough, because Harry’s touches have held enough devotion to soothe the concern before it’s blossomed on his tongue, and his smiles have spelled out that there’s no comparison to be made whenever doubt may have tickled at the back of Niall’s throat.

Now he’s blinking awake under Niall’s touch, bleary but happy when he glances up at Niall’s face and smiles to show just how content he is to be here, with Niall, confirming thoughts he hasn’t heard.

“Hmm,” he all but purrs, “did I fall asleep?”

It’s been enough hours that the sky’s changed through a multitude of colours, the room gone chilly beyond the protecting heat of Harry’s body, but Niall just hums back and tightens his arm around Harry’s shoulders, murmurs, “For a bit.”

“Mhm. Was just that good,” Harry rasps out, forcing kissing eyelashes apart before he presses his face to Niall’s chest, grinning against honoured skin. Private little quirks Niall’s only seen when Danny’s been around, before.

Niall runs his hand back from Harry’s jawline, through soft hair with the purpose of rediscovering his find in Harry’s scalp and says, “You’ve got a scar, here.”

“Hit my head against the corner of our coffee table when I was five. It’s a miracle that I ever stopped crying,” Harry tells him, breaking off a bit of information and handing it over with no regards for how private he usually is. Perhaps forgetting about it, here, in watchful morning light and Niall’s arms. “What about your knee – do we talk about that one?”

Niall does a poor job of making his one-shouldered shrug seem indifferent, he can tell by the concerned look Harry rests on his face, and the way he tightens his arm around Niall’s waist just a little bit. Niall, in turn, angles his lips to Harry’s forehead and presses a kiss there before he sighs.

“That’s it,” he reveals, morose syllables in soft hair. “That’s what kicked me away from the game. Though it was my own fault, of course. Went too hard for the ball, fucked my knee up bad enough to need two operations just to stand again.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Harry breathes out, hot and suffering over Niall’s skin. “I’m glad you had Liam through all of that. And just… _grateful_ that you’re here with me, selfishly.”

It doesn’t sound selfish to Niall’s ears – sounds like a _welcome home, you’ve been missed_ that he’ll take and run with for however long his knee can carry him. He rubs his cheek gently over Harry’s hair, lets the teasing tension wrung up by the subject die at the bottom of his spine, relaxing back into the mattress.

“It’s a miracle that I ever stopped crying, too,” he snorts, less hurt than he can remember, more at peace than he’s used to feeling. Murmurs, with Harry in his arms, “It turned out alright, in the end.”

Harry kisses his collarbone, his throat, his jawline.

“Oh, hello,” he whispers, to which Harry covers his mouth with his own, softly charged with emotions that make Niall’s hand tremble at the nape of Harry’s neck, carefully holding on.

Every languid lick of Harry’s tongue sends sparks through Niall’s bloodstream; a forest fire in the making that eats its way forward through the branches of his veins. His cock is getting interested again – has been half-hard since he woke up, teased with skin and sleepy heat and everything else that makes Harry feel like home. Now Niall whines into it; the heat and that body, the kiss and the tingling pressure it’s leaving on his lips.

Harry’s firm, and gentle, and trustworthy. Has held Niall’s fateful wrist in his strong hands all summer, expertly steering Niall towards a future full of choices for his heart to make, and Niall loves him. For that, and for his smiles, and for the way he cares so openly about everyone he meets. Niall doesn’t know how to get enough of any of it now that he has it, so he shifts closer, kisses deeper, slides his fingers through hair and along the curve of Harry’s waist to the mixed melody of their breathing.

Blurts, because there’s flames licking away at the filters in his mind and smoke clouding his judgement, “You should fuck me.”

Harry leans away from him, all gaze and thick workings of his throat. His eyes are wide with surprise, and lust, and a battle that doesn’t appear threatening. Gentle movement inside searching pupils that hint at a good result – one that will make Niall tremble with something different than fear, he hopes, because they did imply this before. _Maybe later_ , rushed out in the hazy cover of sex, which means that it’s not an entirely new prospect. Not entirely agreed upon either, though.

“If it’s not,” Niall presses out, growing concerned under the weight of those wide, sunshine eyes. Blossoming into a trembling snowdrop in that intensity. “ _Fuck_ , I’m rushing things, aren’t I?”

The rush of breath that accompanies his words is enough to knock the confliction over in Harry’s eyes. Their gaze stills upon Niall’s face; intent and full of something soft that spreads warmth across the bridge of Niall’s nose. The trembling ceases, his cheek is cupped by gentle fingers, and then Harry’s breathing across his lips, nodding so close by that they part under his movements.

“ _Yeah._ Yes, if you’re sure,” Harry rasps out, stumbling over his own tone. “Of course, if you really – what?”

Niall drags his teeth along his bottom lip, relief and amusement dancing behind them, and possibly sparkling in his eyes. He grins, lets the lip slip out and stretch across his face under the attention of Harry’s curious eyes. Tells them, “You always ask that. If I’m sure. It’s cute.”

Harry tilts his head while understanding dawns across his features; his smile growing gentle in caring eyes.

“Just don’t want to be responsible for your regrets,” he says softly, shifting along the line of Niall’s body. His thigh is smooth over Niall’s – a perfect fit between longing legs while he pushes himself up properly. Golden once again, in the morning light. Angelic beams in angelic hair, though utterly human in the heavy sign of arousal that he presses to Niall’s hip.

Niall gulps back a breath and lets his hand fall from Harry’s hair to his cheek, brushing delicate skin. “You must have a lot of them yourself, then.”

“Too much talking, for one,” Harry says in a way of agreeing, grin growing wicked. It causes another spark in Niall’s stomach, igniting another fire. “Not nearly enough action.”

He muffles Niall’s amusement with his lips; presses them to the home they’ve made there and licks to open it up again. He doesn’t seem to mind the smoke, or the burnt nerve endings in Niall’s body that tingle uselessly in reaction to the sensations. He simply drags his hands along Niall’s body to make sure that the rest of him tingles, too, arching off the bed and into compassing heat.

“You’ve got things?”

Niall manages a nod, tearing himself away from the touch of Harry’s lips reluctantly to grunt, “Nightstand.”

His disappointment grows when Harry ducks his head away as soon as he tries to get back to kissing. There’s amusement written all over Harry’s face, but especially in the arch of his left eyebrow – a bit of harmless judgement lining it where it’s raised. “You’ve unpacked your lube but couldn’t bother to put the telly up on the wall?”

“I’ve got _priorities_ ,” Niall shoots back, though the force of it dies before the words leave the tip of his tongue. He feels rather powerless, here, fenced in by gentle trembling in straining biceps, with the promise of Harry’s weight once again hovering over him, held off by amusement and that fond look on Harry’s face that has put a halt to their progress.

Niall moves his hands to ward off those trembles, fitting fingers around bulging arms and pressing imprints over tattoos he’s scared to look too closely at for the fear of a name hidden in swivels of ink. He focuses on the fondness above him, instead. The gentle mocking of that eyebrow and the beauty of that smirk, and says, “And I didn’t want Liam to find that lube when he was helping me unpack, either, thank you very much. _You_ , on the other hand…”

The eyebrow is delighted, as is the smirk where it stretches further across Harry’s beautiful face.

“Oh, alright,” he breathes out, pressing laughter to the corner of Niall’s mouth before he tilts his body to the side, stretching muscle and skin where he reaches for the drawer. “I can take a hint.”

He comes back with the mentioned lube and a condom, flailing his arms about until he gets the duvet away from them and can settle in between Niall’s knees. He fits there as though Niall’s always been meant to frame him, golden skin kept in place by paler expanses, lips and eyes and hair splashing him alive with colours in the middle of it.

His palms move slowly along the outsides of Niall’s thighs, stroking shivers along the skin until he’s bracing grateful hips. Lifting them, gentle but firm as he presses his fingertips into the flesh of Niall’s arse and pulls him down along the mattress, stopping just before he’s got Niall in his own lap. Then the thumbs wander again, intent along the creases between thigh and groin where he pointedly doesn’t touch Niall’s cock.

Teasing, but with a focused gaze following all of his movements to prove how interested he is; how deeply he cares about the skin he’s touching and the reactions he’s earning from Niall as he goes. He’s warm and curious, and Niall revels in the attention, under the hands he’s spent hours in the studio wishing he could feel all over his body. They’re there, now, marvelling him like he’s something precious, coaxing fire and blood through Niall’s veins until it all seems to pulsate right beneath Harry’s fingertips.

Harry is careful when he opens Niall up. Uses one slick finger at the time and brushes his free hand along Niall’s thigh while he adds another digit and scissors them. Brushes comfort into faint hairs and prickling skin and keeps murmuring with that honey-like voice of his until Niall’s so caught up in the pleasure that he’s struggling to distinguish a single word. It’s all melody, with the heavy beats of his breaths as an unreliable structure, and if he doesn’t get to feel Harry over him, inside of him, all around him within a few breaths he’s sure that the world will end somehow. Thinks that the force of his want could take out the entire planet, at least.

“I know, I know,” Harry mutters, less collected than Niall were expecting, looking down with blown pupils and bitten lips. “One second, take a breath.”

It’s a hard instruction to follow when all Niall wants to do is use up what little air he’s got left to whimper his dismay at the loss of touch against his thigh, the retraction of hands that leaves him feeling empty and lonely on anticipating sheets.

He hears hissed profanities and a thudding battle with the duvet in search for the condom – fists his cock and gives it a few deliberate strokes while he watches Harry slick his own up with more lube and bite his bottom lip as if that will ward anything off. Keep them here longer, desperate for each other and the overwhelming desire they find upon each other’s lips.

Eventually he’s there, though, easing in with his gaze firmly aimed at Niall’s face, taking in expressions while Niall takes in inch by inch in turn. It’s a stretch; painful and breathtaking, tensing him up from toe to finger, but Harry forces time upon him any time he tries to let his desperation take over. Slides in slowly and keeps still while he presses kisses over Niall’s breastbone, Adam’s apple, and mouth. Looks safe, and beautiful, and eases the tension in Niall’s lungs with a simple blink of his eyes.

Niall manages an experimental shift of his hips eventually, losing his breath far more delicately at the slide of Harry inside him. It’s enough of an okay, it seems, because Harry finally starts to move – starts to loosen up the knots along Niall’s spine and the tension that runs out in his fingertips until he feels a bit boneless beneath Harry’s weight, presumably pink and sweaty in Harry’s line of sight, but feeling _good_. So good so fast that his head is spinning with it, adjusting to the size, the intrusion, and then melting into every point of contact while Harry starts to drive into him with intention lining his hips.

Niall slides his hands along Harry’s sides, feels the shift and pull of working muscles where he trails his fingers over abs and chest, up along Harry’s neck and into soft, familiar strands of hair. He holds on tightly; pulls until Harry’s mouth falls open with a moan and surges up to lick into the heat, tasting his own name on Harry’s tongue.

There’s no finesse to him, just a pulsating need in the tips of his fingers and in the noises that slip out between their lips. Harry’s found a pace of slow and powerful snaps of his hips that reach deep enough to drive the air out of Niall’s lungs; breathless curses tripping over themselves in their haste to brush at Harry’s mouth, chin, jaw, and wherever else they can reach.

It won’t last long, because it’s already _too good_ , and Niall takes it all and moves with it; lets his eyes slide shut with each press of hips against his arse and struggles to take in the reality of Harry’s gorgeous face above him every time he opens them up again. Harry, here, in Niall’s heart and upon his skin, just some ink away from being entirely right.

He must make another noise, something high and distressed enough for Harry to hush him with another sloppy press of their lips. He’s sliding a hand to the back of Niall’s thigh, finding a better angle that makes Niall moan into his mouth, low and guttural in all the ways he usually doesn’t sound.

It’s all because of the pressure building up inside of him; the tension in his stomach that makes it tremble beneath the leaking head of his cock. Another evidence of his arousal, splayed in the lines of his stomach and probably spelled out across his face while Harry trails his lips over it.

“You feel so fucking _amazing_ ,” is pressed through a groan to his skin; hot and urgent where Harry’s moving down to his throat. “Look so good like this.”

Niall bites his heart back. It tastes fond, slightly bitter, and a lot like Harry, and its rhythm is out of control. A drum in his throat and a bassline everywhere else, in his toes and in those greedy fingertips that he’s sliding down to the back of Harry’s neck, just to hold on. To keep Harry close and have something thoroughly _his_ to breathe in, even if it’s just for now.

“ _Harry_ ,” he breathes out. An anchor of sorts, as he loses himself to the waves, the rocking of hips and sheets and emotions. “Harry, I’m gonna – _please_.”

Harry sees through the garbled haze and makes sense of him; wraps a hand around Niall’s cock and gives it firm, rapid strokes along with his thrusts and a chorus of _fucks_ that drip beautifully off his tongue.

He’s breathless and sweaty and touching Niall everywhere, and Niall ends up coming under a final twist of Harry’s hand, with Harry buried deep within and the last of his nerves frying away with his sight. It’s all white and bursting beneath his eyelids – explosions of _yes_ and _fuck_ and _wow_ that fade to muddled noises when Harry grunts out his name and comes, too. Long and hard, heavy where he sinks down and melts into Niall’s chest.

His breath is too hot on Niall’s skin, his cock too _everything_ where it’s nestled and softening against sensitive walls, but Niall can feel those petal-like lips moving. Can feel words that come without sound, and fingers against his side that spell out affection, and he’ll try to figure them out until his vision comes back. Will try to make words out of satisfaction and give them right back as soon as they’re able to connect their lips again.

He ends up laughing, in the end, out of breath and so entirely fond when Harry manages to huff out, “Still didn’t get to taste you.”

*

There is a dying plant in Niall’s office. A leafy thing that someone from the agency sent him as a polite gesture rather than for well-wishing, and that has served as the focal point of Niall’s shitty attitude for hours. There’s satisfaction to find in the sloping petals, he’s realized. A bit of triumph whenever a wilted leaf gives up and falls soundlessly to the windowsill.

Liam’s name is nicer to look at when it lights up his phone; familiar, and poking at his pout until his lips are drawn into a smile when he finally accepts the call. He does so with a grunt, though, just to keep the momentum going for later.

“I thought you’d be happier now that you have a boyfriend,” Liam hums. He’s got sunshine and California traffic layering his voice and Niall misses him an embarrassing amount.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” Niall tells him. “I have a headache.”

Liam, ever so caring, hums out concern over the line. “Is he that bad? I thought you liked him.”

“Not – I don’t mean _him_ ,” Niall sputters. He kicks his foot to the floor in exasperation, makes the chair spin until he hits his knee against the desk. The good knee, _for now._ “I have a _literal_ headache, corrupting my skull. Of course I _like_ him, he’s amazing.”

There’s a pointed silence on Liam’s part, his presence only assured by the distant noises of the Los Angeles morning while he gathers his thoughts and his voice. Niall is familiar with the build-up – knows that something is about to come but still just sits there with the fading ache in his knee and suspicion in his chest.

“Are you _sure_ he’s not –“

“ _Liam_.”

“I’m just saying,” Liam goes on in that soft, best-friend voice of his that Niall hasn’t learned how to ignore yet. “You’ve got his name on your wrist, Niall, and –“

“Yeah,” Niall snaps. “And he doesn’t have my name on his.”

He tips his head back against the chair; closes his eyes against the flooding memories of what Harry looks like naked. All that gorgeous skin that seems so deprived of brands despite the swivelling lines of ink that adorns it. He hasn’t found a single name that isn’t Daniel’s during the hikes his eyes have taken along the curves of Harry’s body, and a big part of him is grateful for that; unsure of how he’d react if he found a visual reminder of Harry’s loss in such an intimate moment.

Liam gives a long breath, too soft to be a proper sigh, before he asks, “You think he’s gotten his removed?”

He’s missing the point, of course, looking for loopholes as if Niall will be able to climb through them and forcibly thread his and Harry’s bonds together, but Niall’s not about to reveal the details that affirm why fate doesn’t want them together. Won’t abuse the bit of trust Harry gave him for the sake of finally making Liam understand.

He ends up pressing his eyes closed tighter, exhaling slowly into the palm that wanders across his face before he says, “It’s likely, isn’t it? Seeing what he does for a living.”

There’s also the things he’s said during Niall’s sessions, about moving on. About the pain of your soulmate’s name being the final memory you have of them, grazing your mind every day by the presence on your skin. None of it leaves much room for speculation.

“But it’s just,” Liam pushes, because he’s like that. Intent in the face of anything that matters to him, football and relationships alike. “Louis sent me pictures of you. Grainy ones, through the café window. You looked so happy together.”

It explains how Liam found out about the change of status between Niall and Harry, and confirms that Liam still has a pretty black and white view of love and soulmates. There are perhaps shades of grey dancing in the peripheral, but no splashes of colour yet. No understanding of the pops of green and pink and golden that Harry has added to Niall’s life _even though_ they’re not soulmates. An ever-present struggle to see that people can be truly happy, despite it all.

Niall glances over at the plant again. The poor thing looks like it’s sharing Liam’s beliefs on the matter, sloping sadly without the water that fate has decided it so desperately needs to survive.

“I _am_ happy,” he assures, though with a hint of sadness tied to the fact that Liam is doubting it, and a related urge to move the conversation forward. “Are _you_ , over there?”

Liam latches on to the bait with a happy noise, soft and bright like the morning light must be on the other side of the world. “ _So_ happy, Niall. It’s like – it’s better than I ever dared to hope, you know? The lads have been great.”

He goes on for a good ten minutes about it, filling in the gaps that have been left empty in-between the updates he’s sent through texts since he left, and Niall finds himself smiling to the sound of it all. The melodic retelling of the life Liam’s leading, now, with people he’s admired from his days in _The Championship_ suddenly embracing him as a teammate and relying on his abilities. He _sounds_ happy. Thrilled, even, which is all Niall ever wants him to sound.

“That’s really great, Liam,” he says when the melody is ebbing out, pressing his thumb to his right temple and a breath past the smile on his lips as the sensations battle in his head. The headache doesn’t budge in the face of the massage. “I’ll let the press know. Disappoint them with a statement on how smooth the transition has been for you.”

“ _Dickhead_ ,” Liam snorts happily. Then, a beat later, he adds, “Don’t think you can work yourself to death just ‘cause I’m out of the country.”

“I’m _not_ ,” Niall insists, a bit too quickly. The ache thuds its pointed disagreement along his temples, spreading like veins to the back of his skull. “Just catching up on things. I’ve been a bit… distracted, lately.”

Liam hums knowingly, then deadpans, “By the not-boyfriend.”

Niall takes his thoughts back; he doesn’t miss the smug bastard at all. Liam can stay overseas forever for all he cares, in air conditioned hotel rooms and the world’s line of sight all at once, making nice with the celebrities in fancy restaurants while Niall continues his battle with leafy plants and fluctuating weather that feeds his headache.

Thunder, again. Distant like a twinge of hunger, with the threat to starve the sky if it’s allowed to roam. The air is thick to breathe in and the leafless window further away from Niall’s desk is open wide to let it in, inviting it to press against his temples and humour his misery.

“It turned out alright, in the end,” he hums, repeating words that were spoken under the spotlight of his bedroom window a few days ago, when the sunshine was peeking in to highlight the realization. It’s as true here, with Manchester spanning out below him, looking pretty under the promise of rain. He’s here, in it, because they altered their dreams and made them come true.

Liam’s not heard his train of thought; is a plane ride away and thousands of steps pushed to grass ahead of him, but still hums with a tone of understanding. A key of agreement in that soft lilt that only reaffirms Niall’s words. _Alright,_ though they’re actually far away from the end.

He smiles – Niall can _hear_ it – as he says, “In more ways than we ever imagined it would, I reckon.”

They say goodbye with the promise to see each other on Saturday, and the knock of his phone against the desk seems sharp in comparison to the cadence of Liam’s voice, the fresh memory of the excitement he held on his way to the day’s first practice.

Niall can envision the training grounds the team is at, the expanses of neatly trimmed grass and the spread of water from the sprinklers in the early morning. Thinks of Manchester and its pressing heat; of his headache and the water he hasn’t sipped to wane it off. Then he takes the plant to the bathroom and tilts it sloppily under the stream in the sink; makes dirt stain the porcelain and the tips of his fingers until he’s sure that the roots have been spoiled.

Liam has sent him a text in his brief absence. One of those grainy pictures he talked about, taken through the café window of Niall and Harry sat close together in the back of the room. Niall remembers the taste of cinnamon he’d found on Harry’s tongue before they’d parted, the lingering remains of the roll he had bought Harry just to see him smile in the face of his afternoon session on a biker with a shitty attitude. _A portrait of a bulldog_ , he remembers that Harry told him, because it had made him snort coffee through his nose.

 _Leave the office. Go see him,_ Liam has added beneath the picture. _You looking this happy is more important than any paperwork in the world._

Below it, in another bubble, he’s added, _Take care of yourself though. Of your heart._

Niall doesn’t reply to any of it, but looking at the picture, at the soft lines around Harry’s smile, he thinks he’s more concerned about Harry’s heart than his own. About the damage it’s already been through, and the walls that are built around it, fearful to let anyone all the way through.

*

The studio is an anchored piece of heaven fitted to a busy street, and Niall exhales relief into chilly air once he’s stepped inside. It’s welcome against his skin; less scary even though the buzzing noises are bouncing off the walls as happily as they’ve always done. He’s become more tolerant; slowly gaining immunity through the calming touches Harry layers upon him throughout every session.

He’s sat through four of them, now. Four hours of pain that has seared right through his skin and down to his bones; time spent with taut muscles and intrigued thoughts as he’s watched Harry work. Four appointments spread over the course of five weeks, yet he can’t quite remember what he used to feel like before he first stepped across this floor and branded his mind with the view in front of him.

Harry’s wearing different clothes today; navy shorts and a white t-shirt because the weather is out to put sweat along everyone’s brows, and jeans are a death wish. There’s no spoon in his mouth, either. No bowl of soup on the counter, but a busted bar of chocolate resting dangerously close to the edge of it, and a book cradled in wide palms that looks like it’s soaking up that focus that Niall’s not seen emitted from anyone but Harry before. Not quite like this.

He spends some time just standing there, shielded by that admirable focus and free to take in every inch of that body. _Allowed_ to do so, now, because they haven’t been strangers since that first day, and the calculating glances have been weak and far apart as they’ve gotten to know each other – the looks he’s thrown in return welcomed upon tanned skin. Beautiful skin and beautiful features over a beautiful soul.

“You know, I’m starting to think that you’re just lazy,” he says when he’s been stood there for too long, in cool air and the stream of Pet Shop Boys from the speakers. Pointed lyrics about missed heartbeats that make his grin feel too wide on his face. “Always lounging about when I come in.”

Harry looks up at him with wide eyes, surprise lingering on his face for just a second before his expression cracks at the sight of Niall across the counter. His cheeks hollow, his lips twitching in a try to slip away from the grip of his teeth and reveal his amusement, and Niall loves him. Already. Five weeks in, and long since fallen for that mouth and the way it smiles.

“That’s because you always come in at the wrong time,” Harry shoots back, managing a challenging tilt of an eyebrow even though the rest of his face is lined with a happiness that only brightens when Niall leans in over the countertop.

Niall stretches a palm out – presses it to Harry’s jaw and angles him up for a kiss. Hums softly against those lips, relieved to finally feel the warmth of them again.

“Maybe,” Harry murmurs, dragging his mouth along Niall’s as he speaks. “Maybe they’re the right times.”

“Feels pretty right to me,” Niall agrees.

Harry sighs out contentment across Niall’s lips, and Niall takes advantage of it; lets his hand move with the drop of Harry’s jaw and chases the taste of chocolate from soft lips and into welcoming heat. Slides his tongue along Harry’s and revels in the moan that he drags up from the base of Harry’s throat, low and rumbling, urging goosebumps to rise all over his skin, and then he’s smiling. Ruining the kiss, though it feels like the best kind of loss he’d ever imagine.

“Hi,” he drawls, light on his feet. “I want to take you out on a date someday, if that’s okay. Because the sessions don’t count, and the sex is just a bonus. A fantastic bonus. The best bonus ever. I like the bonus.”

Harry’s eyebrow is raised again, thoroughly amused over sparkling eyes; chin sinking to the palm of his hand as he considers Niall’s outburst. His voice is warm when it declares, “You’re beautiful.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Niall sputters, with heat flaring up from his toes and love stretching the size of his heart. “I’m trying to – just _shut up_. One with Danny, if you’re okay with that? ‘cause he’s a part of you, and I like all of you. Both of you. The package.”

Harry’s pushed the chocolate to the side and himself to his feet. He’s got his forearms pressed to the countertop and a layer of fondness painting his features so gorgeous that Niall forgets to feel embarrassed about his rambling. He doesn’t remember being like this in the start of their friendship. Doesn’t remember being so entirely himself with anyone he’s dated since he was too young to care about what people thought about him. It’s deliberating, especially since Harry just smiles in reaction to it, as if Niall truly is beautiful to look at.

“I’d like that,” Harry hums, leaning forward where Niall’s rocked back on his feet during his proposal. “I’m pretty sure Danny would, too. He keeps asking about you.”

Hope, tentative but breathtakingly fierce, blossoms in Niall’s chest. Makes him fragile and strong all at once as he asks, “He does?”

Harry smiles at him as if he’s being endearingly daft, then as if he’s worth the entire world when he reaches over to brush his thumb across the tattoo over Harry’s collarbone. That name that stirred up a storm of unpleasant feelings in Niall’s gut before he learned about the wonder of a child that it belonged to. Now it’s just pretty, like all the other parts of the man before him. As great as the fact that he’s allowed to do this; touch, savour, admire with his heart pinned to his own shirt, beating affection into the fabric.

“I go to the park with him every weekend,” Harry tells him. His voice is low, scratchy with emotion and intimacy and blending with _Always on My Mind_ rather beautifully. “He doesn’t really – I mean, he struggles a bit with physical stuff. It took him relatively long to take his first steps, and he’s still so careful in stairs. Scared to just go for things. So I take him there to activate him – show him what he’s capable of so that he feels more confident, you know?”

Niall nods, captivated by sincerity in emerald eyes and love in drawn out syllables. Thinks of Danny’s vocabulary and the way he uses it, of his politeness and the empathy he pressed to Niall’s cheeks on the very sofa behind them, once. Thinks of balance, and how it takes time for it to establish itself in all human beings, and how incredible Harry is for searching for it slowly for his son’s sake.

“You could come with us on Sunday, if you want,” Harry suggests, eyes hopeful. “Maybe make a day of it, see where we end up?”

“Yeah,” Niall rushes out. “Yeah, Harry, of course I want that.”

Harry is devastating to look at. Bashfulness, delight and surprise boiled down to flow along his features and light up his face in such an unguarded way that Niall’s lungs seem to shrink inside his chest; hollowed around affection that seems so thick that he’ll suffocate with it.

“Anyway, I’m just gonna,” he adds, fumbling through coherency. “Go. Let you get back to your book. Does this _really_ pay your bills?”

Harry fakes hurt, fingers wrapped around the cotton over his heart – clearly more careful with its position than Niall is of his own. “Don’t make me come over there.”

Niall sorts through responses. _Oh, please do, come all over, you can come anywhere with me_ – all of it constricted by those lungs of his, squashed down by emotions and a tinge of stubborn fear that anything he says will make Harry retract a few steps. Realize how far they’ve come and shiver at the height of their affection.

Pouting, taunting Niall with that bottom lip, Harry tells him, “I actually have a removal in fifteen minutes. I’m picking Danny up once it’s done.”

“I’m only teasing,” Niall murmurs. He feels worn away at the edges, smoothed out by the very sight of Harry’s soft expression, and entirely unwilling to go back home. He reaches out, instead. Touches fingers to a cheek just to connect them further, and adds, “You’re still coming on Saturday, right? Or has Sophia scared you off?”

“Sophia is lovely.” Harry smiles, leaning into the touch and warming Niall up from the inside. “And you’ll be there. So, yes, we’re still coming.”

“Good,” Niall breathes out. “That’s good.”

He brushes his thumb away from the corner of Harry’s mouth just in time for his lips to fit in its place – kisses Harry softly to the sound of the door opening up behind them, to Pet Shop Boys and the buzzing evidence of the men in the adjoining room. Kisses Harry with reminders of other people around them, but struggles to see how any of them are important, here, when Harry’s able to take up so much room within him.

“ _Good_ , yeah,” Harry murmurs, eyes glazed over prettily no matter how many times he blinks up at Niall. “More of that on Saturday.”

Niall hums, and manages to sneak in another peck to Harry’s lips before he’s backing away, saying, “I’m gonna hold you to that.”

*

Sophia, unsurprisingly, has done an amazing job decorating the house. She’s shown Niall pictures of her progress over the past weeks, but standing in the middle of the living room and seeing all the pieces as a whole really makes the place feel like a home. Soft greys and whites marrying the oak of the furniture, with Liam and Sophia gravitating towards each other on the beige carpet with the promise of another marriage on the horizon. The ring on her finger is like the cherry on top, and their smiles are sources of warmth, though obviously tired.

“You could have done this another day, you realize that, right?”

He kicked his shoes off at the front door when he came, and has padded around barefoot in the garden for a while – feels like he’s getting everything dirty where he’s flexing his toes against the floor now that he’s back inside, but he knows that neither of them will care.

Liam, proving the point where he’s flicking grass off his heel, grins up at him and says, “Wouldn’t be a housewarming dinner if we had it months after we moved in, would it?”

“Yeah, but you _just_ got back,” Niall reminds him. He’s not really concerned about it, simply amused by the decision to host a dinner right after a flight from LA to the UK when there’s no pressing need to do it. “If you fall asleep in your dessert I _will_ take pictures.”

Liam flips him off, though his smile is so soft that the effect wears off. He’s tanned from long practices and friendly games in summer sun, legs long and muscular where they stick out of fashionable shorts. He’s settled, here, within the walls of his new home, but even more so with Sophia by his side, the way it’s always been.

 _Alright,_ Niall thinks again. _It turned out alright_.

He cocks a hip against the island in the kitchen; sneaks pieces of cucumber to his mouth while he pretends to be useful and listens to Liam’s retelling of the goal he made against Galaxy, even though he’s seen the footage of it at least fifty times by now. Nothing beats the inside story of the very man who scores – the images that flood Niall’s mind whenever he’s told about the calculated moves Liam made in reaction to his opponents on that field. It might have been a long time since he was there himself, but he remembers the adrenaline – the rush of letting your feet take you where you need to be and have the ball seemingly plastered to your shoes.

And he’s proud, of course. Bursting with it at the sight of Liam’s smile; at the sound of his excited tone that hints that maybe, just maybe, Liam’s starting to realize what he’s accomplished. It’s so contagious that Sophia doesn’t even scold them for talking about work on a rare day off, and they’re so wrapped up in the conversation that they barely notice the car that is coming up the driveway.

Light reflects in the kitchen windows, though. The faint crunch of tires against the ground drifting in through the open gap of it and finally alerting them of their surroundings; Sophia’s amused expression and the guests that are already climbing out of the car.

Eleanor comes in first, hastily greeted by a Liam on his way out to help the others. She’s familiar from photos, though her smile is even warmer in person. She carries a trail of nice perfume and has kind words ready on the tip of her tongue, and Niall thinks that he has liked her since the first time he saw Louis’ face light up at the mention of her.

While she moves over to Sophia to exchange flowers for an embrace, Niall manages another glance through the wide windows, out at the family-sized spectacle that is unfolding where various people’s body parts are sticking out of the car. Harry’s arse, in particular, looks amazing wrapped up in black denim, his legs endless where they’re struggling to outweigh an upper body that is dipped in over the backseat.

He’s lowering a rumpled-looking Danny to the ground a moment later, and Niall’s shaken out of the gutter, out of his place and shuffling out to the hallway on instinct, leaning out of the doorway to see Danny making eyes at the house. He looks small out there; too small for the size of his eyes where they blink against light and overbearing height, still too dazed with sleep to comprehend where he’s ended up.

Niall exaggerates a gasp to snap him back to reality, then he cheers, “Hi there, buddy!”

He doesn’t get any sound in reply, but Danny’s lips move around a silent _hi_ , and Niall’s heart swells a couple of sizes in his chest. Overflowing with explosives where he lowers himself down on his good knee and flings his arms out experimentally.

Danny positively beams – is a miniature version of his dad, with the same soft features creating so much brightness that Niall’s grateful for his kneecap, and the way it’s keeping him balanced and ready when Danny finally moves in close against the width of his chest.

He lifts the boy up and holds him close; inspects the bleary eyes and lingering smile on Danny’s face and feels honoured to be trusted like this. Depended on in a moment where the world’s still falling back into place after an escape to whatever dream Danny might have had on the ride over.

“Bit tired, are you?” he murmurs, bouncing slightly on his feet. “Did you sleep well?”

Danny tilts his chin down, blushes slightly as he aims his smile at a flash of familiar red in his hand and croaks out, “Yes.”

Niall chuckles out fondness, and feels his ribcage tremble with the battle between that enlarged heart and two lungs that keep expanding with breaths of affection. They feel safe under the pressure of Danny’s weight, though. Useful where they keep him standing, cradling sleepy warmth and infectious contentment on the doorstep.

He glances out over the driveway again, sees three men chatting lazily at the trunk of the car while a fourth pulls Danny’s chair out of it, and reels his gaze back in to Danny. “Let’s go inside, yeah? We’ll take your shoes off, get comfortable.”

Danny fits his temple and that shy smile against Niall’s collarbone, sinking even further into Niall’s chest while his eyelids flutter delicately, and Niall smiles over his head while he shuffles inside. Feels big and clumsy when he tries to get small shoes off of small feet one-handed while he keeps the other one hooked around Danny’s body, but doesn’t get any complaints from the boy while he struggles.

It’s an accomplishment of great proportions to get it done, and the reward is a soft hum from Danny’s lips, a subtle sigh against that collarbone, followed by the words, “Thank you. Thank you, Niall.”

They squeeze Niall’s heart. His lungs. His entire rib cage, rattling fiercely under a pressure that is heavier than the boy’s weight. Monumental, crashing down on him like it has every time Danny has spoken to him. This small boy that is scared in stairs and that seeks out physical touch as though he needs the reminder that he’s not alone, so polite and appreciative of anything he gets.

Niall doesn’t quite know what to do with the urge to protect him from the world – the knot of it in his throat that he has to swallow down before he says, “You’re welcome, buddy. Come on, let’s have a look around.”

They circle through the house and murmur names of everything they see for a while; Danny slowly waking up and finding his confidence as he snickers in response to every exaggerated comment Niall gasps out as they move.

Everyone’s managed to move into the kitchen by the time they come back. Ed salutes him with a wide grin on his face, and Louis clamps down a hand on his shoulder before he settles in next to Eleanor against the counter. The conversation doesn’t falter, but it fades from Niall’s consciousness as he zones in on Harry – becomes a faraway drone in the shadow of his own body and the way it feels in the Styles boys’ attention.

Harry beams a hello, fitting a gentle palm over Danny’s eyes and a kiss to Niall’s mouth. A perfect hit with a soft landing, leaving Niall’s lips tingling when a surprised burst of laughter falls over them in the tracks of Harry’s retreating form.

Danny is swatting fists in front of his own face; Lightning McQueen figurine flying about in possessive fingers and narrowly missing Niall’s throat as he shrieks out a giggle of, “No! Daddy, _no_.”

“What’s that?” Harry singsongs, eyes round and full of mischief as he leans down and in. “You want one too?”

A moment later he’s pressing noisy kisses to Danny’s head, drawing delighted chuckles out of the boy with a proprietary hand fitted to Niall’s waist. Holding on tightly, fencing them all in in this moment of domestic bliss, unaware of the tingling that still roams on the expanses of Niall’s lips. He’s missing the way Niall’s blinking frantically at him to assure himself that the sight is still real, and that it actually happened.

Harry kissed him, _here,_ in a room full of friends as if it was the most natural thing in the world. It’s a foreign concept, not just because Harry’s been so tentative over the past weeks, but because Niall’s never been someone’s aim before. He’s been a quick-fix. A convenient fuckbuddy with the wrong name for a relationship, and he’s never been claimed like this. Has never been kissed as if he matters, as if his place by somebody’s side is obvious.

The fingers against his waist are changing that, keeping him close and strengthening the bond. He blushes at the realization, warm and happy all over, in rib cage and knee and beneath prickling skin, with no regards for where he is or who is watching anymore. He’s not sure that anyone _is_ , because their voices are still background noise; the bassline that enhances the melody of Danny’s giggles while Niall does his damn hardest to keep the boy’s wriggling body secure against his hip.

*

The incomprehension lingers for a while, even as they sit down for dinner out on the patio. It ebbs and flows against the walls of Niall’s stomach, soft as it washes back and forth around rumbling laughter and swells of emotion, because the sense of belonging is reaching its branches further out than to Harry. It’s wrapping itself around the entire table; tying Niall close to people that truly seem to like the intricate webbing and his presence within it.

It lingers, because he’s spent so many weeks thinking – _hoping_ – to find a home away from home with these people, and it’s starting to seem like he really has. Like he never had to make any choices after all, because fate decided to work around the routes it originally had planned for him and give him something to be incredibly grateful for.

Once that thought has settled in his heart and shrunken it back to its safe, comfortable size inside his chest, he loses himself in the thrill. Smiles through jokes and long-winded stories, through Lightning McQueen-adventures and soft kisses that taste like _by the way, I really like you_ in the aftermath of the dessert. Like vanilla and coffee, with an undertone of affection that is sweeter than the rest of it.

He can feel the weight of Sophia’s gaze fusing with the deep blue of the sky when the evening’s grown old, dancing over flickering flames of the candles she’s lit on the table. She can be subtle, but tonight it’s obvious that she doesn’t want to be; the hem of her dress dancing softly just above the ground when she moves to Niall’s side.

“So you _are_ separable after all,” she hums when she’s sat down in Harry’s abandoned chair, elbow on the back of it with her head tilted speculatively in her palm. She’s pretty in the play of orange flickers, the warmth of her kindness enhanced by the sum of small fires. “I was starting to wonder.”

It’s a brand of teasing Niall doesn’t get from anyone else in his life, set to nudge him playfully, but never to embarrass – always delivered with that sisterly smile that he cherishes so much whenever Sophia aims it his way. He knows that she’s looking out for him, hoping for the best for him much like Liam does, but perhaps with more belief and less concern.

He raises his eyebrows at her, wiggles his head back and forth to tie it up in a faintly amused acknowledgement while her smile grows on her face, just as settled in their connection as Niall feels. He can hear Harry’s voice in the background, worn through the evening, but with a happy note to every syllable that it carries across the garden. It’s a pointed jab; a line to underscore Sophia’s comment.

“He’s good for you, you know. He grounds you in the moment – makes you enjoy it,” she adds to it. Calm winds of silent observation brushing up against his skin, complementing the words Liam told him over the phone earlier in the week. “And don’t get me started on that boy – my _god_ , Niall. You’re so happy with them.”

If it were anyone else Niall would tell her to stop looking at him; call her creepy and turn it into a joke. It _is_ Sophia, though, with that impenetrable kindness lining her eyes, and Niall tucks his chin to his clavicle and reins his smile in just a bit.

“I think he actually wants me,” he ponders. Says it out loud for the first time since the thought crossed his mind, because up until this point it’s felt more like a wish than anything else. Something that might not be true if he voiced it aloud. “He’s had plenty of chances to push me away. And I really thought he would, when I first kissed him, but he asked me to come back. He still wanted me in their life, and that’s – that’s never happened before. There’s always been someone better around the corner.”

Sophia hums. “Or upon a wrist.”

She reaches for his hand with her own; fits the gentle pad of her thumb across the faded ink there, with her head still tilted so curiously. Ever so careful in her assessments as she adds, “What does he think about this?”

Niall swallows, wets his lips and feels the way the grin upon them falters under the pressure of the question. He doesn’t know, not really. Only knows that his own opinion has been voiced, and that Harry, in turn, doesn’t have a name upon his own body that can get in their way, whether it’s physically there or not.

“We haven’t exactly talked about it,” he reveals. “But I don’t think… I mean, he knows that I don’t care. That this is what I wanted all along – to fall for a _person_ and not just a name.”

Sophia squeezes his wrist companionably, lacking judgement in caring eyes. The way she smiles makes her look proud, as if she’s dying to pat his hair in place and tell him that he’s done well.

“A _good_ person, at that,” is what she ends up saying, which sounds just the same in Niall’s ears. “I mean, _look_ at him.”

Niall does; he looks out at the garden, through fading light at the man that has seemed to shine ever since Niall met him for the first time. There is a weightless grin tugging at Harry’s lips; laughter falling out in deeper melodies of the same song Danny’s shouting back at him, and together they paint the most beautiful picture Niall’s ever seen.

Their eyes meet over the heads of chatting friends, and the smile remains on Harry’s face. It travels with the faint breeze and blossoms up as brightly on Niall’s lips, wiping away the fleeting worries of the previous conversation, because there’s not a hint of doubt flashing back at him from Harry’s expression. There’s just blinding happiness and breathtaking beauty, and Niall doesn’t care about the pointed snickers he can hear slipping out of Sophia’s mouth. He _is_ happy. Harry makes him happy.

Harry also stops a running two and a half year old with the scoop of his forearm and brings the boy up to his chest, murmuring words with his gaze still stuck on Niall. A moment later Niall’s got Danny’s arms wrapped around his knees, and a small but forceful smile pressed to his trousers.

“Bye, Niall,” Danny tells him, soft and sincere when he glances up with wild, excited eyes. “I’m saying bye.”

Niall quirks his brow. “You’re saying _bye?_ Are you _leaving_ me?”

“Yes,” Danny nods against Niall’s knee, scrambling fingers for a path up to Niall’s lap until Niall takes pity on him and lifts him up. “In Ed’s car. It’s black. A black car. With wheels, and a _shift_.”

“A gear shift?” Niall asks him. He brushes a hand over Danny’s head, through soft hair and radiating warmth. The boy’s cheeks are red from exertion but there’s no sign of exhaustion, just that wide-eyed awe splayed over all of his features as he settles in against Niall’s torso. “That sounds really cool, Danny. I’m sad that you’re leaving me, though.”

Danny studies Niall’s expression carefully – the exaggerated pout of it that he’s never seen before. Empathetic as he is, he translates the lines of it quickly, and mirrors it in the most devastating way as he presses his cheek to the centre of Niall’s chest and flings his arms around Niall’s sides.

“ _Sorry_ ,” he murmurs, voice so quiet that it almost disappears in the whirl of grown-up conversations around them. “Sorry, Niall.”

Niall blinks a few times; swallows thickly and fights a breath down to his lungs for a lack of words to say, fitting a wide palm to Danny’s small back in a helpless try to retract his words. Over Danny’s head he can see Sophia blinking just as frantically, mouthing a wobbly-looking _fuck_ at him in a familiar reaction to Danny’s kindness.

“Hey, buddy, it’s okay,” he rasps out, desperately trying to pet the concern away with his clumsy hand. “I’m _fine_ , see? It’s okay.”

Danny looks up at him, palms pressed to Niall’s stomach to push him back the required inches. He doesn’t look entirely convinced; just older than he is, wearing the same doubtful frown that his dad has flashed Niall multiple times in the studio.

And as though that frown were the bat-signal Harry comes up behind Niall’s chair a moment later, flashing all three of them that radiant smile of his before he fully tunes in to the situation. He gives Niall a questioning glance and asks, “What’s with you two? I told you to say goodbye, peanut.”

“He did say that,” Niall cuts in. He bounces his leg up and down a few times – feels satisfaction rolling in his stomach when Danny’s lips finally start to stretch into a smile again. “And I got very sad about it. You’re leaving?”

“Danny is,” Harry says, nodding while he curls his fingers around the back of Niall’s neck. “Ed’s dropping Louis and El off at home, then he’s bringing this little monster with him for a sleepover.”

The touch goes from comforting to pointed so fast that Niall physically can feel how the blood starts rushing in his veins, searching for the fastest way to his cheeks where it can betray his interest, his hope that is flickering in his chest.

“ _Oh_ ,” he breathes out. “And… and you?”

“And _I_ ,” Harry says through a wicked grin, ignoring Sophia’s muttering in the background, “am all yours.”

*

The flicker has turned into a full-fledged fire by the time they get to Niall’s flat. His mind hasn’t recovered from the previous burns yet – still frayed and delicate at every little thought of Harry Styles that has passed since they last left his bed together. The smoke’s getting familiar, though, as pleasant as the cigarettes used to be, but far healthier as it spreads through his system.

Harry kisses him boneless when they’ve moved inside, pressing trembling muscle wrapped in heated skin up against the front door and licking into Niall’s mouth as if it’s all he’s wanted to do with his evening. Despite the urgency he doesn’t seem to be in a rush, though, keeping his hands fisted in Niall’s shirt and around a hip while he savours the taste that he finds on Niall’s tongue.

He’s slow and deliberate, taking his time to explore and muffle the sounds that he draws out from the back of Niall’s throat with the overlapping waves of his lips, and Niall clutches helplessly at his shoulders. Digs fingers into bone and muscle and tries his best to stay on his feet when Harry leans back.

The door feels too slippery behind him. Polished with the intent to guide him to the floor when his knees give out, but Harry’s hand is still secure on his hip – something to lean into before he tumbles.

“What?” he murmurs, dazed. “That was – what?”

He catches Harry’s expression, the absolute glee that lights up his eyes and makes his smirk look dangerous before it dissolves around a chuckle. A bright and happy noise that makes Niall’s world feel a bit steadier – filled with the purpose to prolong that very sound.

“I didn’t lose my English,” he huffs, because he can interpret the sparks in those eyes and he knows when he’s being teased. Remembers this very jab from hazy clouds of heat and touches. “ _Shut up_.”

“Didn’t say anything,” Harry murmurs, much like a song. He presses his mouth against Niall’s jaw when he says it; lets it reverberate against skin and into bone, making Niall’s chin drop with a breath in response. “Just wanted to cheer you up. Wipe any lingering sadness away.”

Niall lets his fingers slip along the fabric of Harry’s shirt – stretches the neckline of it on his descent until he can curl them over Harry’s chest, tight in cotton and overwhelming heat. He can feel Harry’s lips along his jawline; their path down to his clavicle so languid that he has to fight to keep his thoughts lucid.

“I’m up. Cheered up. _Very_ up,” he manages, which is the equivalent of a poem given his current state. “Pretty sure there’s still a crack in my heart, though. Those _eyes_ , Harry. He’s got your expressive eyes.”

Harry presses another chuckle against his skin, a breath of hot, amused air against yearning flesh that responds with a wave of goosebumps all the way down to his nipples.

“You’ll have to get used to that,” Harry murmurs. “He breaks my heart every day, and then he puts it back together again.”

Niall _‘will have to get used to that’_. Niall _gets_ to get used to that – is _invited to stay_ , indefinitely, with this man that is keeping him standing by the force of his touch alone. With him and his son that has the power to enlarge Niall’s heart and crack it down the middle, both in ways that don’t feel life-threatening at all.

Niall _wants_ to get used to that, and he wants it so badly that the impatience to get it erupts in the form of a whine from the back of his throat, high-pitched and desperate under the soft pressure of Harry’s lips that still roam along Niall’s collarbone.

“My mouth’s up here,” he tells Harry, giving the fabric in his hands a pointed tug. “Kiss me.”

“Your stubble’s down here,” Harry retorts, laughter brimming his voice as he pushes the tip of his nose along the hollow of Niall’s throat, over the Adam’s apple and up to the underside of Niall’s chin, punctuating his trip with a noisy kiss there. “Tickles.”

It’s the easiest thing in the world for Niall to tilt his chin down and fit their mouths back together, easing his lips apart and capturing Harry’s bottom one between them. There’s a hint of coffee there, still. A touch of eagerness up for grabs for Niall to draw out of him and exploit until he’s got Harry groaning back at him in familiar harmonies.

“Remember my bedroom?”

Harry does remember, well enough to back his way into it with his hands steady on Niall’s hips, tugging him along over encouraging floorboards and cowering thresholds. They land clumsily on the bed and laugh into each other’s mouths until they’ve guided limbs and intention upon the mattress and kicked the cover down with their trousers.

It’s the lightest Niall’s ever felt in his life, inflating with giddy reverence and affection over Harry’s body, only tethered to the bed by the hold of Harry’s fingertips around his waist. The palms are wide and warm on his skin.

He kisses Harry’s lips and throat, draws breathless laughter out of Harry’s body by the brush of that appreciated stubble down the centre of Harry’s torso, and sucks a mark to the inside of Harry’s thigh. Then he hides his smile in the defined v and nips out the rest of the alphabet against a hipbone, committing every responsive noise to memory as he hooks his curious fingertips in Harry’s boxers.

The fabric goes, and his lip stings with the heedless hunger of his teeth, pressing down to suppress the trembling whimper that has grown from the very bottom of his spine. There’s no such thing as getting used to the sight; Harry sprawled out in all his muscled glory, lean and shivering in the battle between lust and anticipation while Niall devours every inch of him. Snapshots to save for later days, when space and layers of clothing will be tearing them apart.

He curls his hand loosely around the base of Harry’s cock and gives the length a few languid strokes while he settles in comfortably between Harry’s knees, but he never reaches his goal. Never even gets to let his mouth guide him forward before there’s something crashing against his forehead, and confusion etching lines on that same expanse of skin.

His hand instinctively tightens around Harry’s cock, his lips bereft and twisted in dismay as he raises his gaze to lock it with the pure amusement that dances in Harry’s.

“Is this your idea of foreplay?” he deadpans, giving the fallen condom a pointed flick across Harry’s belly. It moves with silent laughter – surfs on the waves of trembling abs while Harry keeps smirking down the length of his own body.

“I’ve got dibs on the first blowjob,” he says, as if that explains anything. It might, to someone that doesn’t have most of his blood along with his brain capacity rushing south in their body. Niall’s not that lucky. Or perhaps luckier than that.

He clears his throat, licks his lips. Remembers his hand and where it is, moving it in retaliation to that fucking smirk, and then humming out victoriously to himself when Harry’s expression falters under the pleasure.

“Fine.” Niall moves his thumb, presses it to the underside of the tip, curious. “You wanna change positions?”

“ _No_ ,” Harry grunts. He makes it sound like a stupid suggestion, and then he arches his back off the bed in an even stupider manner that makes Niall’s mouth go dry. _Of course_ it’s a stupid question. Harry was _made_ to lie like this, with his legs spread around Niall’s body, responsive to every little flick of a hand. Entirely coherent, though, as he adds, “Want you to fuck me. Hence the flying condom.”

The universe stills, narrows, and Niall feels even lighter. Merely drawn to Harry by some gravitational pull that makes his hands slide uncontrollably over that glorious body. The left one slips from Harry’s hip, losing ground made up of bone and heated flesh. The other one’s too surprised to keep going, slipping off Harry’s length to the sound of a delicate whine that he doesn’t recognize. It might be coming from his own lungs, too low on oxygen and desperate for the world that has presented itself in front of him.

“You –“

“Am I sure?” Harry quirks a teasing eyebrow under Niall’s gaze, fumbling lube into Niall’s trembling palm. A magician, producing sex-related things out of thin air. “Yes. Because you’re looking at me like that. So if _you_ want to –“

“ _Yes_.” Niall chokes on the next noise and Harry’s eyes spark with fond amusement, his lips twitching with something even fiercer – satisfaction, perhaps. Realization dawning around that mouth that he has this effect on Niall. That he’s the cause of every burning cell in Niall’s body, and every sprinkle of water that soothes them when they kiss. “I – _yes._ That’s a – _of course_ , yes.”

He surges up, somehow, on knees that shake with anticipation. Finds use for a stunned hand when he fits it on the mattress beside Harry’s head and leans down to press more confirmation against plush lips. He laps up the satisfaction he finds there, and licks into Harry’s mouth to explore the flavour of him, the tickling heat of that tongue.

Harry’s nipples are as sensitive as Niall remembers them; taut under the fingers Niall skims over them on his way down along Harry’s body. He collects gasps – soft little hitches in reaction to exploratory pinches of that left bud while he uncaps the lube one-handed. Then he savours loud, wounded noises when he eases slick fingers past twin-pair of tight balls and over that spot behind them, light and teasing on the way to their goal.

 _It’s been a long time_ , echoes softly in the back of Niall’s mind once again. A long time since Harry liked someone, and most certainly – without need for confirmation – a long time since Harry trusted someone to do this. Touch, and feel, and open up a part of him. _Any_ part of him, mind and body alike.

Niall is proud, and astounded, and nervous with the weight of that trust resting on his shoulders, over clavicle and breastbone. He takes a moment while he’s circling fingers against that tight ring of muscle to appreciate the sight in front of him, the restless and eager energy that is making Harry’s legs shiver on the sheets. _Niall’s_ sheets; white, and soft, and appreciative to have him.

He tries to be as careful with Harry as Harry was with him, taking time and measured breaths as he opens Harry up. His gaze is fixed on Harry’s face, cataloguing every movement of bitten lips, as well as the size of those famously expressive eyes when he finally manages to curl his fingers _just right_ inside of Harry.

Harry whimpers, and exposes the long, delicate line of his throat as he tips his head back against the mattress – arching with the force of the pleasure that must be sizzling up along his spine. He’s beautiful. Breathtakingly real beneath the fingertips Niall runs over his hip, and trembling with need when Niall leans in to press a kiss to his stomach. Responsive to every murmured bit of praise Niall rants out against his skin.

Niall works up to four fingers, torturously slowly according to the ache between his legs; less so judging by the way Harry’s cock twitches against his stomach, leaking arousal against slick skin. Long fingers are wrapped in the sheets and intelligible noises keep spilling out of that sinful mouth, all of Harry coming apart under the work of Niall’s reverent hands.

He pulls said hands back to himself eventually, reluctant to separate from Harry’s warmth and the subtle hints that he’s there, living and breathing and _wanting_ , under Niall’s touch, but eager to coat his length with more lube and squeeze his fingers tightly around the base. Finding calm in the eerie lack of patience, reminding himself of how special this is. How worth the waiting it was, just to get this quiet moment of anticipation where he holds himself up above Harry’s body and sees the absolute need in the dancing shades of green in Harry’s eyes.

“ _Niall_ ,” Harry pushes off his tongue, then he pushes hands against Niall’s stomach, around the sides where he can dig fingers into flesh and taut muscle, pleading silently.

“Yeah.” Niall leans down, presses a kiss made out of love and agreement against Harry’s mouth. “ _Yeah_ , okay.”

He only sinks the head of his cock into that tight, delicious heat before it’s too much. He can feel the lack of life beneath him; the stillness of the torso that is held captive between his arms, against the mattress. The patience he didn’t have before comes rushing in through his veins, from nonparticipating toes to the very centre of attention in his heart, where worry is blossoming like unwanted weeds in the cracks.

Harry’s expression is twisted, dancing green suddenly hidden under tense eyelids, all while his lips stubbornly move to a different tune, breathlessly ordering, “Keep going. Don’t – _please_ don’t stop. Not yet.”

It’s the reveal of trust in emerald forests that convinces Niall – a clear intent through distinct wetness that allows him to slide in deeper until he’s finally bottomed out. Then he decidedly stops, just as breathless and seized up with concern while contrasting emotions battle in worn veins. He puts a palm to Harry’s cheek; a thumb to Harry’s temple; his heart in every touch as he chants unspoken promises in his mind that everything will be okay. That he’ll wait, here, forever if that’s what Harry needs.

He kisses Harry’s mouth again – kisses slack lips with unguarded care and promises that they can stop right now. That they don’t have to do this, that he can prep Harry some more, or just make him come until all the bones are loose and nice in his body and the world’s soft around them again, but Harry shakes his head. He dislodges lips and forces eyes open another time, exposing proper tears that make Niall’s heart shiver with impending failure.

“No,” Harry croaks out, steadier that Niall could have ever imagined. “ _No_ , it’s just – haven’t done this since I was eighteen. He wasn’t as big. Was nowhere near as important. I just – just need a moment, please.”

Niall doesn’t collapse, which is a feat. Doesn’t move much at all as he reconnects their lips and uses Harry’s mouth as a shield against the emotions that have gathered in his throat, and then he says, “All the moments. As many as you want, I’m not going anywhere.”

Harry does move, eventually, after Niall has kissed life back into that chest, and relaxation into coiled muscles. He can feel the way Harry sinks back into the mattress again; melting slowly under Niall’s heat and hanging on to every fresh breath of air as he gives his hips an experimental shift.

The noise he makes is soft, nearly soundless, but inarguably interested. He hitches an ankle around the back of Niall’s thigh to pull them impossibly closer, his eyes flying wide open at the pressure of Niall’s cock against that spot inside him, persistently sending sparks of pleasure through him. Renewed arousal hardening his length once more.

“Okay?” Niall murmurs. “Want me to move?”

Harry moves his head against the mattress, small nods that debauch his hair and intensify his gaze with a purpose. He swallows visibly when Niall starts to pull out; steels himself but doesn’t do more than lose a precious breath when Niall eases back in.

And the universe, it expands again. Bursts in colours from all of their points of contact; stealing emerald and pink from Harry’s expression and spicing it up with the twisting of nerves and veins inside of Niall’s body as pleasure shoots through him.

There’s good in this world. Harry’s body beneath him, loosening up and clasping down tightly around him. Harry’s fingers, powerful again, and pressing assurance to every bit of Niall’s skin that they can find. Proof that he wants this too, and that misty wetness was nothing but a fog to get through. The waterfall before the secret cave of serenity.

It feels like everything else they do together, easy like the banter and comforting like the absent-minded touches, only intensified. Kicked up to the point where Niall wonders if walking ever will feel natural again – if _anything_ will stand against the comparison of what they can do together in a bed.

He works up a steady pace; an insistent push and pull of hips to the increasing volume of Harry’s noises. They’re the good kind of breathless again; signs of pleasure running over lips that seem too far away where Niall is moving over him. Pitched sounds and muttered murmurs of Niall’s name steadily building up tension in Niall’s stomach, setting familiar fire to his straining spine.

Harry tugs him down for a kiss, slick and filthy, with too much breath and tongue. It knocks him askew; the universe wobbling with sensory overload as Harry digs fingers into the back of his neck. They feel desperate, scratching want into Niall’s hairline as if he’s afraid to fall off of it. The metaphorical line of pleasure, dancing upon burning skin.

Niall drives into him harder, urged on by the soft little words that Harry presses to his lips, the _yes, more, please, it’s so good, feels so good,_ that echoes in bite marks and that slides in saliva, in lingering heartbeats where their mouths keep coming together. Overlapping kisses that make Niall’s hips stutter, desperate, chasing relief.

“C’mon, Harry,” he pants out, hot all over. His hands are anchored deeply in the mattress; his eyes drifting down to Harry’s neglected cock, hard and leaking profusely over quivering muscle. “Get one of those pretty hands around yourself. Get yourself off for me.”

Harry whimpers, far away from smirks and banter where he’s lost in everything Niall’s making him feel, and the beauty of it is too much. The nuances of the man between Niall’s arms, upon Niall’s sheets, are so exquisite than Niall’s drowning in them, in the undeniable fact that he gets to have it.

“With you,” Harry dazedly responds, as though confirming Niall’s thoughts. “I’m – it’s _for_ you, and – and _with_ you.”

The back of his hand brushes against Niall’s stomach when he wraps it around himself – his mouth going slack as the pleasure becomes too much, and it only takes a breathless praise of _beautiful_ from Niall’s lips before he’s coming. Hot spurts of pleasure, and related pressure of muscle around Niall that is another layer of _too much_. A snap of the final thread that held Niall back as he lets everything wash over and out of him, into the heat of the man that’s beating for the both of them, full of heart.

Later, he pulls out of Harry gently, and discards the condom somewhere to the side of the bed. Then he sinks into a heap of boneless limbs at Harry’s side, his nose tucked into skin and ribs that rise unevenly with the force of Harry’s breaths. It’s too hot to be this close, clammy and wrong, but significantly better than not touching would be, so he keeps letting his exhales beat against Harry’s side – lets them wash right back over his own face and revels in all the signs that they’re both there, feeling okay.

“Okay?” he mumbles out, low on conformation. “You’re – are you okay?”

Harry swallows down a breath and tilts his head on the mattress, eyes glazed over when their gazes finally connect. “Yeah, I’m – and that was –“

“—it _was_ ,” Niall fills in agreeably. “ _You_ were. _Christ_ , you’re _always_ amazing.”

It earns a gut-punched sort of sound, notable in the sudden quiver of that rib cage. Niall fits his palm in the hollow under Harry’s breastbone, where the protective armour of bone hasn’t quite started to fuse together yet, and runs a thumb over every outline it can reach while he pushes himself up on a shaky elbow.

“You are. You’re –“ he starts, hovering over features that just seem to get prettier every day, looking into eyes that speak of so much that Niall can’t begin to unfold it. So much complexity wrapped up in one man, and Niall’s breath can’t keep up with the affection he feels, so he does his best to show it instead. Kisses soft lips with equal tenderness until he can feel the corners of Harry’s mouth curve upwards, growing certain.

*

Niall wakes up alone in the morning. His toes are cold again; his heart trembling at the width of exposed sheet beside him. Rain’s smattering against the window to state its sympathy, and he doesn’t know what to do. Wants coffee, but can only catch the scent of his own shampoo in the air, thick, invisible clouds of it gathered in the hallway outside.

There is a companionable heat out there, too, when he’s shuffled into a pair of boxers and an old sweater from uni. Lingering steam that won’t fade where it’s trying to sneak out of the crack in the bathroom door, because Harry has taken a shower. Because Harry’s still here, in his kitchen, now, with damp hair and his hands around a cup. He’s showered, and made tea, and is continuously spreading warmth through a flat that gives Niall cold toes.

Niall loves him. Already. _Still_.

“Mornin’,” he murmurs, practically feeling the sparkles in his eyes, the emotion that must be radiant. “Are you – how are you feeling?”

Harry accepts a peck on the lips; pushes into it briefly before he leans back. His smile is faint. Shy and beautiful. “Good. Bit sore.”

Niall fits a hand to his waist, traces the curve of it and squeezes the flesh of that hip before he decides to get himself a cup. He can feel Harry’s gaze on him as he moves around, heavy with contemplation through the air between them that definitely has a new feel to it. Not unpleasant, he doesn’t think, just _different_. A stillness established in the breaths taken after sex – a quiet grown where they usually plant banter and let it blossom.

He doesn’t know what to say, suddenly. Holds his cup in both hands and blows gently over the surface while he lets his eyes wander along Harry’s body; endless expanses of skin on display after that shower, pink from heat and scrubbing hands. They never did wipe the come off of Harry’s stomach – maybe that’s where he fucked up.

“Liam thanked me, yesterday, for taking your mind off work lately,” Harry says, cutting through that unannounced strike of dread in Niall’s mind. He looks thoughtful, concerned, furrowing brows cutely as he speaks. “I didn’t realize that I’ve been – should I apologize for that? Steal less of your time, give you some –“

Niall kisses him to stop that awful suggestion from taking full shape – from becoming an actual offer, rooted like doubt in Harry’s mind.

“Don’t freak out on me now,” he mutters into the faintest sliver of space, “but I want you to have _all_ of my time, however much of it there is left.”

Harry blinks. “That’s… morbid.”

“It’s _romantic_ ,” Niall tells him. Their cups clink together, their feet nudging on polished kitchen floor. His heart doesn’t know whether to swell or shrink with the impending admission. “I’m saying I like you. _A lot_.”

“Well that’s,” Harry starts, eyebrows finally unfurrowing. “That’s a nice way to start a date.”

Niall tips his head forward against Harry’s collarbone, and snorts against warm, familiar skin. Settles his left hand back on that hip, but doesn’t get to keep it there for long before Harry’s lifting it up to his mouth, murmuring softly against it.

“You’d forgotten,” is what he says, smile tangible against knuckles. “We did say we’d make a day of it. Do you still want to?”

“Had amazing sex last night,” Niall tells him. “It wiped my mind of all future commitments. _Of course_ I want to. Do we have plans besides the park?”

He lets himself breathe Harry in for a moment. Heat and clean scent; a secure harbour to be tied to by the grasp of his hand in Harry’s. He can feel every exhale, here, and every small twitch of muscle as Harry thinks about his answer. A stroke of a thumb against the inside of his wrist as a hint of what the verdict will be.

“We could – if you want to – we could fit in your fifth session? New beginnings and all. Before Ed drops Danny off,” he suggests, and the nerves are there in his tone, in the thump of his heart, and in the way he squeezes the bone of Niall’s wrist just a bit tighter. “If you’re not – I mean, if you still want to.”

Niall’s heart’s stuck in its normal size, though cracking where it’s beating furiously against his ribs. He doesn’t know where the insecurity is coming from – if it’s born in the same change of dynamics they seem to have gone through overnight, or if he’s missing out on something important. Something bigger than dried come on a toned stomach.

He leans back again, assessing sadness in wild forests. “ _Yes_ , Harry, I still want to. What you said, about new beginnings – yes. Yes to all of it, but not – I don’t want you to have to work on our date-day.”

“It’s not work when it’s you,” Harry murmurs back, allowing Niall to slide their hands back together; their fingers entwined. “I like knowing that I’m making you happy.”

*

Harry _is_ making him happy. Indescribably so, even when they’re reaching the end of the hour. Niall’s hair is finally drying up from the rain outside; his heartbeat roaring like thunder in his ear while the studio remains strangely quiet without the usual music from the speakers. He’s got Harry’s hand rubbing the same gentle circles into his palm; Harry’s focused expression hovering over his arm; Harry’s knowledge peeling ink off his skin to take him another step closer to the clean slate he wants to be.

He’s _happy_ , but he’s also entirely unnerved, because the shift in their dynamic has only gotten worse since they left the flat; both of them in Niall’s clothes, neither of them as fluent in their banter as they’ve been since the first time they met.

The conversations have been stilted. The kind of one-sided they’ve only ever been during the last session they got through, and Niall’s struggling to find the connection where he’s sat, back too-straight against the seat while the only familiar thing about the situation is the comfort that Harry is expressing through his touches.

“You’re doing it again, you know,” Niall points out through pained syllables. “Acting strange.”

Harry, in a poor attempt to joke, rubs disinfectant over screaming skin and says, “Just tired. You know, after last night.”

It’s poor, because Niall knows Harry well enough to be sure that he never would work on Niall if he were too tired – that he’s too professional about everything, and too caring about the people he works _on_ to ever endanger their bodies in any way.

Niall lets a few moments pass, and he spends them watching every move Harry makes. The practiced rolls of that chair as he reaches around for tools that Niall still hasn’t wrapped his head around yet – equipment for an ordeal that still makes his bones tremble with fear. He watches Harry’s expression and the beautiful lines it is made up of, and he knows that he cares too much about them – about the man that is wearing them – to let this slide. Still believes in working things through with the ones you love, as long as they are willing to do it.

He takes the argument. Takes a deep breath and says, “Maybe if you just fucking _talked_ to me every once in a while, about what you feel about – well, about _this_ for example. Me removing my soulmate tattoo. Is that what this is about? Or is it liking me that is bothering you again, because I thought we already got through that one. _I like you back_.”

“For how long?”

It’s quiet. A whisper in the aftermath of sizzling pain through abused skin, delivered by lips that visibly shiver in the cold that comes with Harry’s uncertainty.

Niall, stumbling, incredulous, feeling physically struck, repeats, “ _For how long_? I said _forever_ this morning, did I not? Were you listening? I asked you not to freak out, but you _are_ , and – and _fuck_. You never let anyone into that mind of yours, Harry. You don’t give more than necessary away of yourself, and you’re so – so damn _scared_ to let anyone _love_ you.”

“Because anyone who’s ever claimed to do it before has _left_ me,” Harry croaks back, too vulnerable to be scary. So vulnerable so suddenly that Niall’s heart splinters at the sound of him – at the sight of the pain that is clawing its way straight through Harry’s face, darkening his expression with raw emotion. “I can’t go through that again, Niall. Can’t put _Danny_ through that.”

Memories of an earlier session flash through Niall’s mind; Harry in that same chair, Niall in his, and the admission of a wish to ease people’s pain flowing off of Harry’s lips, confirming Niall’s suspicion that Harry knew what that pain truly felt like. That he was one of those who didn’t just talk about loss like it was a foreign threat of emptiness.

He gathers the memories and the emotions he’s got tied to them, swallows around lumps of pain and worry and wishes, for the very first time, that he knew her name. That he could say it to make it more personal.

“Is it better to shut everyone who are left, and that care about him, out of your lives?”

Harry’s expression closes off, his feet strong where they push his chair back and get him standing. Tall, slim, and beautiful in Niall’s clothes, deepening the cracks in Niall’s heart with his glare.

“You’re one to talk,” he spits out like knifes, “giving up on your soulmate before you’ve even _met_ him. Before you’ve even given the lad a _chance_. You’re chasing after _me_ instead, how pathetic is that? That you’re so scared to be rejected by the poor lad that is destined for you that you can’t even be grateful that he _exists_.”

And there it is, scraped down to the very bone; the problem. _Problems_ , plural.

Their views on soulmates, unsurprisingly, don’t match, and although Harry’s shown support any time Niall’s expressed his opinions in the past, it’s obvious that he doesn’t fully understand Niall’s intentions. Obvious, at last, that he is scared that Niall will turn his back on him as soon as another Harry comes along. And then there’s the ghost of his own past hovering in the peripheral, loved and painfully missed, and it’s the first time Niall feels truly terrified of her presence. The first time he’s questioning whether he’ll ever be good enough, hearing Harry tear himself apart like this, exposing everything all at once.

He says, “I love you, even if you can’t love me back. If you can’t – if I don’t compare to her.”

It cuts through pain and sorrow, through green and pink and everything he loves until all that is left intact on Harry’s face is devastation. Wide-eyed, breathless damage as if Niall’s said the worst possible thing.

“She wasn’t my soulmate,” he says, lips so dry that the emotion in his voice catches on them. “Danny’s mum, she wasn’t – my soulmate’s still alive. Breathing. Loving. You _don’t_ compare, you just… _are_. Here.”

Niall concludes, plainly, with bits of his heart on his tongue and copper on his teeth, “It’s me.”

He shifts in his seat, with too many swelling emotions in his veins to contain in a proper way. Surprise isn’t one of them, because he thinks that he might have known, deep down, ever since he saw the confliction in Harry’s eyes that time he pushed Niall and his attempted first kiss away. The pain in those green eyes had resounded beneath Niall’s skin in a way he’d never experienced before; fierce and lethal as he simmered in it overnight.

Harry’s barely breathing, now. Still and frightened by his own words, by their infliction and Niall’s response. He’s another broken heart, wearing it on Niall’s sleeve because he’s broken down all the barriers. Niall didn’t expect to see himself in there. Didn’t expect so much confusion in the middle of that warmth.

“But – but I am,” he presses out eventually, desperate for clarity and for everything to _stop hurting_. “I _am_ here. You said I weren’t – that I haven’t given my soulmate a chance, but I _have_.”

“You haven’t,” Harry replies, entirely dejected, though Niall’s struggling to sympathize. “If we hadn’t met that first day, then you never would have wanted me. I would have been that name on your wrist that you glared at. I’d be unknown.”

Niall stands up and glances away. There’s too much emotion in Harry’s expression – too much reflection to find of things that he can’t even straighten out in his own body yet. He tucks his hands in the sleeves of his sweater, immune to the lingering pain over the confused veins in his wrist. Wanders aimlessly between workstations with Harry’s gaze heavily resting along his contours.

“You _knew_ ,” Niall says. Accuses. Asks. “You _knew_ , and you still wiped your own name off —“

“I _didn’t_ , Niall,” Harry cuts in. His shoes squeak against the floor but he doesn’t come closer. “I didn’t know. I had – I had a _feeling_ , I guess. Knew that there was something about you that pulled me in, but I didn’t know for sure. Didn’t ask for your name until the first session was over, remember?”

Niall whips around, glares, and feels the world shake from the weight of all the revelations. “Why _didn’t_ you ask? You could have _stopped_ it. You had so many chances to _stop_ it.”

“Because it wasn’t what you wanted!” Harry shouts back. Shouts, because they’re fighting. Fighting, because they both have standpoints. “You were here to get my name removed, it was pretty clear that you didn’t want me.”

The air goes out of Niall, then. Rushes into empty space and eerie silence that reminds him of where they are, and of the fact that they’re not alone in the building. There is a happy couple upstairs. Traces of Harry’s son surely spread over the living room floor. Evidence of love all over, except in the feet that separate him from Harry. And that’s where it seemed the brightest a mere few minutes ago.

He doesn’t understand. The universe that narrowed and expanded around the two of them in his bed last night is crumbling around them, refusing to yield to their emotions now that they’re rushing off any conceivable scale of what is right. His soulmate has proved to be the very man he loves, and the man he loves has kept him in the dark – has dressed that dark up in disguises of warm smiles and let him believe that he was in control of his own fate for once.

“You never told me, after,” he says quietly, stood where the two rooms connect, feeling entirely disconnected. “You didn’t want to explain who Daniel was, you didn’t tell me about his mother, and then you let me walk around like a fucking _idiot_ , thinking that you’d gone through the worst possible thing.”

Harry’s face crumples with sadness, his shoulders slumping with shame and resignation. “It was easier to let you assume. I just – I wanted to make you happy.”

Niall thought it, a few minutes ago, that Harry made him happy. Has felt it ever since they first met, when Harry announced that he could give Niall his freedom back. Now he can’t feel anything but the shards of his heart – his proclaimed love ripped to shreds as if he ever needed more proof that he should stop giving himself away like that.

“You know, all this time I thought you were amazing for giving me my fate back. For giving me the chance to make my own decisions, and to fall in love on my own,” he tells the tense form of sadness and muscle – the beauty wrapped up in his own fabrics. “Turns out, though, that you’ve been doing the fucking opposite. What am I supposed to do with that?”

*

He buys a coffee maker. Drinks coffee and thinks, _it didn’t turn out alright, in the end._

The flat is cold, as is the city under grey clouds and in constant aim of the wind. He can’t find the fuzzy socks Sophia gave him and he misses three of his dad’s calls because he’s thrown himself back into his work with the purpose of warding off the thoughts that are trying to unravel themselves in his mind.

There are still pieces to figure out. Moments he shared with Harry that need to be analysed in order to give him a clear idea of what it was that happened between them, and of what possibly might have gone on in Harry’s head that made him act the way he did.

The betrayal he feels is as bitter as the first pots of coffee he makes before the new machine decides to take pity on him and cooperate, and it keeps blending with memories of the heart-wrenching sadness that was visible in Harry’s expression, in his stance, and in the multiple cracks in his voice. The confusion is a bad replacement for sugar.

*

Louis comes over that Friday. He’s sat on the sofa when Niall gets home from work, flipping Liam’s spare key over and over between his fingers. There is a cigarette behind his ear and a resigned look on his face, and he doesn’t pretend that this is something it isn’t. Not even for a second.

“Harry was a better kid than the rest of us. He did good in school whenever something was interesting enough to tickle his interest, you know?” he says to the moving key, to the sound of Niall kicking his shoes off in the hallway. “We had this abandoned house in the outskirts of the city where we used to hang out, and one day he brought along this lad he’d met in some literature class? Zayn. He was all – all black hair, leather jacket and cigarette smoke. He fit right in. Could do some wicked art with a can of spray paint.”

Niall moves towards the fragile tone of that voice, intrigued but wary of the pressure over his own chest – the sense that this story won’t be nice and soft. The sofa is just as hesitant, easing Niall down next to Louis as if it’s afraid to spook him.

“He’d talk about books with Harry. Could spend hours sat as a test-dummy for our stupid arses when we decided that tattooing each other was a brilliant idea,” Louis goes on. “Smoked cigarettes with me until the sun peeked up from the horizon in the morning – those kind of things.”

Niall, hesitant to ask, carefully pushes through his dread, “What happened?”

“We’d been at my place, Zayn and I. There was alcohol involved. Weed. Stupid fucking shit that doesn’t agree with driving,” that tone says, full of resentment and cracking with regret that makes Niall’s stomach feel torn apart and full of acid. “Zayn _did_ drive. I didn’t stop him. Couldn’t – I couldn’t _stop_ it. Was right there next to him, and I couldn’t do a fucking thing. Just _watched_ it, the lights, as they got bigger.”

He’s not hiding any emotion; there’s a threat of flooding in blue eyes and a continued passing of that key between his fingers, as though the repetitive action is the only thing that is anchoring him in this moment, keeping him from imprisonment in the reverie from hell.

“Can I,” he presses out after a moment’s pause, finally addressing Niall with a flick of a gaze. “Is it okay if I smoke in here?”

Niall nods, even though he’s not in view anymore. “Yeah, course. Go ahead.”

He watches as Louis gets up; unprompted as he goes to the nearest window and opens it up. He looks small, perched on the windowsill. Weighed down with revelations in the same way Niall’s felt over the past days, and Niall supposes that they are connected – the revelations and the subsequent emotions.

The cigarette is moved from behind Louis’ ear – freed from soft hair and placed between lips that look physically scratched by the words they’ve moved around so far this afternoon. The smoke is as grey as the clouds outside, and Niall wonders briefly if the entire city is cast under the same spell of contemplative sadness.

“We crashed into a lorry, just down the street from that house we used to hang out in,” Louis continues, fending the wobble in his voice off with smoke. “Harry was stood outside, waiting for us to pick him up. He called for an ambulance, but it wasn’t – there was no use. No time.”

Niall stops watching him. Stops looking altogether in a useless try to ease the burn beneath his eyelids. It’s too real, all of it. Louis’ voice, and Louis’ posture, and the guilt-ridden grief that colours his expression. It’s something that happened, and that has kept on happening over and over again in haunting memories.

“It fucked me up,” Louis says through an exhale. “Made me fuck _myself_ up, I should say, but this really isn’t about me. Harry, he… he had to watch it all. The crash that took Zayn away, and then me and my breakdown. And I think he fought so hard to keep himself together for my sake that he forgot how to loosen bits of himself to give away, you know? He got scared that he’d collapse if he picked something apart.”

Another drag of that cigarette, a wayward trail of smoke in Niall’s direction that isn’t enticing at all. It works with the acid in his stomach. He feels sick with dawning understanding.

“I suppose,” Louis tells him, “that _that’s_ what this is about – you knowing what Harry’s had to go through. He lost Zayn, and a few weeks later I took off as if his support had meant nothing, because I was a selfish bastard that couldn’t see past my own fucking guilt. And he had no one left to talk to.”

 _Had no one to practice with_ , is what Niall hears. _Had no choice but to keep his thoughts to himself._

“ _Shit_ ,” he breathes out, because it’s all he’s got. Insufficient and hollow, yet loosened from a pit of so much raw emotion. It feels like that’s all he’s made of these days. “Shit, shit, _shit_.”

Louis gives him a wry smile; understanding pooled at the corners of it. There’s a tiny slump to his shoulders now that the heaviest bits of his story have been loosed from chest and tongue, set free in the wind that is curling its way inside the flat. None of it makes the moment feel any lighter, though, and Niall is at a loss for words. He doesn’t know what to say in the face of grief, and he doesn’t know what to do with the spin his Harry-related thoughts have taken.

“He forgave me right away, when I finally got back here, because he’s the kindest fuckin’ man alive,” Louis tells him, as though registering Niall’s disconcertion and subtly trying to nudge him towards a side. “But – and I think I’ve told you this before – he hasn’t forgotten about it. How badly I hurt him. And I don’t think it’s all that strange that he’s reluctant to go through it again.”

Niall is aware that he’s made Harry do exactly that, though in a smaller scale. Knows that he simply walked out of the studio door in rage, but that Harry might have seen it as something else entirely. Another person leaving him behind.

The betrayal is still there, fierce and mixed with disappointment beneath Niall’s skin, but he is a bit wiser now. A bit more understanding, and can feel an unpleasant twist in the bottom of his stomach at the very thought of what Harry’s gone through.

He concludes, “You think I should talk to him.”

“I think he owes you an explanation,” Louis says in way of agreeing, shifting his weight in the window. “And I think you at least owe it to him to listen to what he has to say. Give him a chance to open up.”

*

Louis stays for an hour. He complains about Niall’s coffee, and they work together to finally get Niall’s telly up on the wall while they let their conversation run in gentle, wide circles around the topics they just got through. Light talk about football, and Liam, and the engagement ring that Louis bought and hid in his sock drawer last Monday, once a painful goodbye to Eleanor at the train station told him just how stupid he’s been to wait this long to pop the question.

It’s a lighter note to end on – a solid proof and reminder of how Louis managed to pick himself up and straighten himself out, finding happiness when he thought that life was at its worst.

Niall is a bit clueless as to why Louis shares such a big secret with him, at first. Feels proud and honoured to be trusted with it when they’re grinning conspiratorially at each other over loose cords and infuriating instructions, and only realizes later that he’s not just an extended part of Harry in Louis’ eyes anymore. Realizes, belatedly and with a pointed leap of his heart, that he has become a friend to confide in when something is going on, and subsequently brings Louis in for a hug goodbye when they part on the street outside of his building.

He doesn’t know where summer went, but he thinks that it is quite ironic that it left with the warmth he’s worn on the inside of his body. Thinks that it must have lived in Harry’s smile and the radiance he always aimed straight at Niall when they were together, and feels his muscles protest in the wind as he rounds the corner.

The studio is busy when he gets there, full of music and voices that take the edge off the buzzing noises, but that doesn’t settle the similar whirl inside his own bones. The door to the staircase is open wide, though, left there for him to go through, so he heads up into the comforting heat and familiar scent that waits there for him.

Harry’s sat on the sofa, waiting just like the room with its curious walls that seem to be looming over the space. They frame him and his morose expression, and it makes the wounds in Niall’s chest twinge harder again.

There is acid left in his stomach – conflicting emotions battling against the walls of it as he takes in the furrowed eyebrows and downturned corners of Harry’s mouth. Lips he’s traced with his eyes, and tongue, and thumb, now curved in resignation as if he’s sure that Niall has come here to say goodbye.

“You got Louis’ text,” Niall mumbles for a hello when he sinks into the empty corner of the couch.

He’s greeted by wide eyes and a surprised gaze that drinks his features in as though he’s water in a desert. Emerald orbs assuring themselves of the sight of Niall – of his presence in this room that has seen both their ups and downs before.

“He’s picking Danny up for me,” Harry says in an equally unconventional agreement. “Because you’re here. You wanted to see me, he said, and – and I made you coffee, because you always want some.”

Niall accepts the offered cup Harry’s sliding over the coffee table, letting heat trickle into his fingertips as he assesses the beverage. “I got a coffee maker, actually. I’m not that desperate anymore.”

“You… did?”

“Didn’t want to run into you at the café,” Niall tells him – words like pain taking over Harry’s expression until it’s twisted up with shame and sadness. His eyes are wet in overhead light, catching sun-like reflection that doesn’t resemble his natural brightness at all.

It takes Harry a moment to gather himself, to find his footing and a breath big enough to visibly fill his lungs up again, as though the honesty in Niall’s comment was paralyzing while it echoed between them. His hands are shaking around his own cup of tea; his lips dry around a voice that announces, “I should have told you.”

“Yeah,” Niall agrees, feeling oddly calm. Thrumming veins finally settled with Harry’s attention here to soothe them. The name upon the ones in his wrist doesn’t know how to lie. “Yeah, you should have.”

“I think,” Harry continues, barely pausing. Barely moving, as though he’s terrified that he’ll wave Niall away with a flick of an eyebrow. Both of them remain frustratingly furrowed over concerned eyes as he talks. “I think _I_ was the one who was scared of rejection. Of watching you walk right out of my life before you’d even been a proper part of it. And I – somehow, foolishly, I thought my way would be better, because at least that way you got what you wanted.”

The accusations Harry made about Niall’s fear of rejection never hit home last Sunday – were always transparent in their defensive delivery; obviously Harry’s fears all along. It hurts, though, to hear Harry own up to it now. Reverberates in Niall’s bones much like the pain of that first rejected kiss had done on top of this very floor, because those fears make sense, now.

“I didn’t _not_ want you,” Niall tells him, firm, bracing his gaze against Harry’s over sofa cushions. “I _wanted_ my soulmate, Harry, I just didn’t want to waste my life looking for him. I wanted to fall in love, and I _did_. With you. And if you’d have told me, I wouldn’t have fucking left you. You were everything I wanted.”

“But you were leaving when you came, Niall!” Harry sputters. His hands quiver; the mug scrapes against his jeans. “You were taking me out of your life before you even knew that you’d met me.”

The gleaming wetness has become too much; there’s inundation in wild forests, with a first tear climbing through lashes to spell its betrayal across the rosy pink on Harry’s cheek. Stark pain against soft colour that makes Niall’s breath hitch with the desperation to make everything _stop_. He thinks that he understands, finally. Thinks that he can see why Harry did what he did, even if he doesn’t agree with the reasoning behind it.

The coffee is better than his own brews; warm on his tongue and on its way down his throat, branching out to the rest of him while his heart is too busy gathering its pieces and trying to make sense of them – of them in relation to the matching splinters Harry is carrying around on his sweater. On _Niall’s_ sweater that is once again smoothed out over broad shoulders.

“Louis told me about Zayn,” he says, setting his cup on the table and smoothing his own palms over his knees, because it’s not the right time to press them to Harry’s body. “And Harry, I – I _really_ need you to tell me about the rest of it.”

Harry wipes diamonds off his cheeks, steels his lungs with borrowed breath while he nods, and starts; “Danny’s mum was Zayn’s soulmate.”

Niall’s elbow slips off of his thigh, but Harry ignores the chance of a pause. Powers through it now that he’s found a path to follow.

“We were best friends since childhood, and when I realized that the lad I’d been bonding with over Bukowski in school was the same lad whose name she had tattooed over her ribs, I was pretty sold on the whole concept of soulmates, you know?”

For a moment he’s addressing Niall with a faint spark to his eyes. Less sadness and overhead light; more simmering excitement. A boy in love with love.

“Zayn’s death obviously ripped her to shreds, and I – I tried to be there for her. To be what she needed, even though I was a poor replacement,” he mutters, fingertips tightly wound around ceramic. The wetness has seeped into his voice; thick and heart-wrenching to listen to when it goes bitter. “We were drunk, and sad, and she left with Danny as soon as he was born. Said she couldn’t live in a city that was so full of memories of what she’d lost.”

Niall can feel the losses in the pit of his stomach – a growing list of names that left this town with Harry in it. The acid fails to disintegrate the echoing betrayal, and he finds himself pushing his hand across the empty space, cupping it around the back of Harry’s over ceramic and tea. Layers of warmth, upon warmth, upon love that hasn’t faltered. Persistent in its quest for the man before him.

“She passed away,” Harry tells their hands, sadness and wonder mixed in his gaze while his voice wobbles uncontrollably. “Another fucking car accident, because fate can be relentless. And Danny –“

“He found you,” Niall fills in, teary-eyed and full of understanding, hating how blurry Harry’s features are when he blinks. “He found his way back to you. You told me.”

Harry nods, “I did. I told you a lot of things. _True_ things.”

Niall sighs, rubs a thumb over Harry’s knuckles – proof that he’s not leaving. “It’s not about what you said, Harry, it’s about everything you kept quiet. All the times you could have told me what I was missing.”

“I love you,” Harry decides to tell him, now. “It’s terrifying to love you.”

His eyes are wide open, honestly proclaiming what he feels despite the losses that he has suffered before. The one thing Harry hasn’t done, at this point, is apologize through the swells of pain and shame. He hasn’t once shown regret for the fact that he did everything he could to make Niall the first one in his life to finally stick around, and that, Niall thinks. That has to count for something. At least according to the pulse in his wrist and the way his chest seems so ease up again.

“My name,” he croaks out, because he needs to know. “Do you still have it –?”

Harry does, on the back of his neck and hidden behind thick strands of hair; a delicate scribble of familiar letters in stark, untouched ink, even though Niall’s run his fingertips there more times than he can count already.

 _Niall_. Six layers of him, because he was never a doubt in Harry’s mind.

He touches the neat lines with trembling fingertips, pushed up on knees that dig into the cushion and that press against the outside of Harry’s thigh. His touch makes Harry’s torso stutter – an audible breath escaping the lungs that Niall syncs up with so well in morning light – and for a moment that’s all there is. The two of them, frozen, with hearts that don’t know whether to risk the effort of patching themselves up. Then there are huffs coming from the stairs.

Small, wonderful huffs along with steps that belong to small, tentative feet, followed by Danny’s body crawling up the final step.

His expression is delighted – eyes giving the stairs a triumphant look as though it verbally discouraged him when he started his climb. The Velcro on his left shoe is ripped open, and his hair is windswept from the curious weather outside. Niall has missed him terribly.

The boy notices his presence, then, wide-eyed and excited as he sets off in a sprint across the room and stops a feet away, glancing up shyly through long lashes. “ _Hi_ , Niall.”

It’s full of hope, and it makes the indecisive shards of Niall’s heart beat hopelessly in his chest as he  eases himself back on his heels and replies, “Hi, buddy.”

Unperturbed, Danny slowly raises both of his index fingers in the air and asks, “We can watch Dusty two?”

Niall can hear Louis shouting downstairs; cursing whoever left the door open for curious two year olds to go through, though his feet never make contact with the stairs to signal a rescue mission. It makes Niall snort quietly, unsurprised but entirely fond of so many people in this very building.

He tilts his head, aware of Harry’s cautious gaze on the side of his face as he asks the boy; “There’s a Dusty two?”

It makes Danny rush away to find the dvd, excitedly stumbling over toys and his own feet on his way, and it leaves room for Harry to finally speak up again.

“I understand if you can’t – if you don’t want anything to do with us again,” is what he says, though it’s aimed to the bottom of the cup that’s still captured by nervous hands. “But Danny, he’s… he’s half mine. Half of _me_. And there’s a bond there – a natural attachment because you’re bonded to me – and if you want a part of it, you can. You can watch _Planes_ , or _Cars_ , or do whatever the hell you want to do with him, and it doesn’t have to mean anything to _us_. I – I have prepare the dough, anyway. Pizza night.”

Niall looks at him. At Harry, with his curls and features and undeniable beauty that shines from the inside and out. And he’s in love. Already. Still. Despite it all. So he nods slowly, because Harry’s finally looking at him again.

“Of course I want to watch Dusty two,” he murmurs, fitting a hand to Harry’s knee. “No pineapple, right? Danny and I will be right here when it’s finished.”

He lets Harry take that hand in his own; adoring fingers brushing over their own traces in the centre of Niall’s palm, drawing invisible lines of appreciation and wonder down to Niall’s wrist. There is a final layer of ink there that looks pale and wrong over decisive veins.

“I do think that I want to go through with my final session,” Niall murmurs, aware that he’s smiling at their point of contact. “New beginnings, you said. Remember?”


End file.
